


East of the Sun

by roxymissrose



Category: Smallville
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Bigotry & Prejudice, Character(s) of Color, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, non-con elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 18:37:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 111,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4070371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ladies, gentlemen, step back in time with us to the 1930s, when dolls flashed their gams, men wore hats, and the music was swinging. A time when Clark Kent and Lex Luthor struggle to find peace and love in a world that despises them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally posted to [my LJ](http://roxymissrose.livejournal.com/648507.html) in 2008.  
> Many, many thanks to [danceswithgary](http://danceswithgary.livejournal.com/) for the beta work. She not only cleaned up my mistakes, she researched right along side me, and provided ideas, valuable links, and lots and lots of handholding. Wherever possible, I provided new links for broken ones, but there's a possibility some links no longer work.
> 
>  
> 
> cover art by danceswithgary

The spot changed from white to blue, and Alex took a step forward, closed his eyes and blew…lithe fingers danced up and down, light flashed off the gold band of a watch he always wore…sound poured out, round, sweet, weaving a tale. The notes looped and soared and pierced the heart. He lowered the clarinet, inclined his head to the applause and stepped back, stone faced, stiff, sweat gleaming on the naked curve of his skull. One quick nod to the audience and he was back in his shell, evaluating, thinking how he could have made it better.

The band leader glanced his way and nodded too. Walt smiled at him. Alex knew he'd got it solid, just like Walt expected him to.

After, some of the guys sat out with the crowd, getting drinks, talking, flirting with the girls who always stuck around after the set. Letting their hair down.

Not Alex. He drank quick, left quick. "What is a he, a saint or something? He don’t hang out with us?" Tenor Sax asked. He was pretty new, and hadn't any idea how things worked. Everybody knew Alex's business was Alex's business.

"Alex hangs out with Alex. We don’t question, we don’t ask. He's ready for each show. That's what matters."

"Yeah," Second Trumpet said. "What he does and where he does it is his business."

"He's some kinda pansy?" Tenor Sax persisted.

Everyone crowded around the table shrugged and went on to other things. Tried to.

Tenor Sax started in again. "I don't like being close to some queenie. He better not make a move on me—"

"Have you looked at yourself lately? You're kinda ugly." Second Trumpet sneered.

"What's that supposed to mean—?" Tenor Sax started to get up and Drums slapped him down.

"Shut up and get drunk. Or just shut up."

"Yeah, shut the fuck up—have a drink—say, we were in the groove tonight, fellas, no shit—solid man, we killed, junior, we killed—Hell gate, solid murder—Danny, did you see the new ticket taker at the Chinese? Daaaaammn…" They yelled back and forth, chatted and laughed and drank and ignored any mention of Alex….

In other words, Tenor Sax learned, Alex was Alex and nobody's business but his own.

@@@

Alex wiped and swabbed and packed the clarinet in its velvet-lined case and snapped it shut. He settled a white enameled bowl on the stand, filled it with water and gave himself a leisurely wash up. He meticulously cleaned a well-worn but still solid pair of patent leather shoes, and dressed, frowning at the beginning of wear on his shirt cuffs. He knew his collar was definitely getting frayed. He'd have the tailor take care of that. He reached for one of the two suit jackets he owned with a wry smile. European tailors made those jackets—they'd last forever…they'd fucking have to.

The radio in his room was gently exhorting him to buy Chesterfields, and promising a program of sweet music, that he only half listened to. His attention was on the oval dresser mirror, watching as his fingers twisted a strip of fabric into a bowtie. He smiled, reminded of his mother, and the social affairs that required him to dress and how wearing a bowtie then felt like punishment. He glanced at his watch, the one with the Napoleon face. He had lots of time for a few drinks, maybe a dance…sure. Walt Cook, the long-suffering band leader, didn’t expect them until ten. He could do a lot of things until then.

The neon sign from the drugstore across the street battled with the lamp on his writing table, blue alternating with red lit the dim gold glow in his room. He didn't mind the nightly light show much. He found the red and blue stripes painted across the truly ugly field of cabbage roses and ivy pasted over the walls rather more cheerful than the funeral parlor effect the paper usually had. He shrugged on the jacket, checked to make sure he had wallet and cigarettes. One last look at the dresser mirror as he settled his hat on his poor, cold, bald head…blew himself a kiss and locked the door behind.

@@@

Alex walked the dark street, other club goers hurried past him in the humid night, hurrying from one island of light to another. Alex took his time, enjoying the night, and the thick feel of the air…he craved heat. Cold even in the summer, he loved when Metropolis became a jungle at this time of year. He hummed a song that was the latest, sang a little under his breath—it wasn't something he did all that well, but he liked to from time to time. "It seems we stood and talked like this before, we looked at each other in the same way then…" he turned the corner, past a phone booth and the girl using it, who looked speculatively at him. He grinned, held his hands palm up empty—she looked away. "but I can't remember where or when…"

He was standing in a basement a flight below street level, waiting for a black-painted door to open. A leftover from the late, unlamented Prohibition, it had a little window set in the thick slab of wood—it scraped back at his measured knock, and a wet eye peered out. "Oh, it's you."

The door opened, music and voices washed out into the humid night. "Come on in," the fantastic creature purred, and managed to open the door while also holding her hand out. Eyebrows in a color and shape nature never imagined climbed the white-powdered forehead when Alex dropped the cover and a pretty good tip into the gloved palm and smiled.

The club he was walking into was a lot different from the one he'd played at earlier that night.

"Enjoy, sugar, enjoy."

Alex winked, and walked down another short flight of stairs into the club proper.

It was dark and hot, thick with smoke, the smell of booze, a hundred different colognes, and the bodies, swirling on the floor, stuffed into nooks and crannies here and there. The stone walls of the basement room were painted red, candles lit tables, and they became islands of light in the dark, their orange light and the red walls made the place look like Little Hell.

Alex leaned elbows on the bar in the rear of the place, off the tiny dance floor. He kept his back to the mirror over the long length of marble bar, and watched the couples on the floor, thought about cutting in and sighed. He didn’t want to dance. He wasn't in the mood. His mood had been pretty strange lately anyway. He was dissatisfied, with his music, with his life in general. He was drifting, truthfully, had been since he'd been cut out of the Luthor orbit. Almost penniless he'd been, but at the time, it'd felt like complete freedom, out from under a man who gave Satan a run for his money. Hell, if he'd known being found out queer was all it took for the old man to cut him loose, he'd have shouted it from the rooftops years ago, world be damned.

He hoped his brothers were dealing better with all that Luthor shit than he had. He shook his head. Julian, poor sweet kid. He hated leaving him alone with the old man…maybe Lucas could protect Jules, maybe he had the balls to deal with Dad he'd lacked.

He sipped at his drink—a pretty good Manhattan, and sent a little prayer of gratitude heavenward, didn't have to worry about going blind swigging bathtub gin anymore—and eyeballed the crowd on the floor. Reached in his pocket and brought out a small, intricately engraved lead case. He rubbed his thumb over the lid, smiled softly before drawing a cigarette from it. He lit it and inhaled, waited for whatever happened next.

"Would you like a dance," a deep voice at his ear said.

"Not all that much," Alex replied.

The voice moved closer, he could feel warm breath caress his ear. "You wanna fuck?"

"Now that sounds promising," he murmured and turned to look at the young man standing to his right. "Yes, indeed, it does." He was close to his type, and he wasn't going to be picky tonight. So what if the kid's eyes were blue and not green, his hair was blond and not black…he was tall, broad and had a sweet smile…his eyes said he knew what he wanted.

"You want to go to your place?"

Alex shook his head. "Hell no. Out back is fine."

There was a flicker of disappointment in the blue eyes that Alex ignored—the young man nodded. "Okay."

On the way out the door, he said, "I know you. I come see you play sometimes. The way you look when you play—"

Alex cut him off. "Can we have less chatter? I'm pretty much only going for one thing."

"Sure, sure. Sorry," the kid said and actually looked sorry. Alex bit the inside of his cheek. He only wanted one thing, he wanted to get off. No complications, no…nothing.

In the alley, leaning against the rough brick wall, one hand scrabbling for purchase against the crumbling brick, the other buried in blond curls, Alex rocked his hips, slow, concentrating on the rush of feeling. For a few minutes, this thing was all there was. Warm, the slick rub of his dick against wet softness, the hint of a moan, fingers touching in all the right places. He dropped his head and watched the pink pointed tip of the blonde’s tongue dance over the deep rose head of his dick, twist into the slit, lick up drops of precome—he hissed and pumped his hips, harder when the blond moaned and rubbed himself through his pants. He closed his eyes and ordered himself to let go, and he filled the man's mouth, held his head and carefully thrust as deep as he could, gasping as his come spilled over the blonde’s lips. He pulled the guy upright, slapped his hand away and pushed his own hand into the open fly. He jerked him off, roughly, and whispered filthy things in his ear—he called it right, this guy loved dirty talk. He lurched against Alex and came with a breathy moan. He leaned against him, breathing hard and then jerked upright.

"Oh, I'm sorry—did I get you—"

"Don’t worry about it," Alex said, "I'm not." In a fit of…something, stupidity—he kissed the guy and the blond smiled at him.

"Maybe…I could come to the club sometimes…maybe we can…"

Alex laughed. "Thanks—for tonight."

The guy nodded. "Okay. Some other time. Or later on…"

"Ah, ah, ah—bedtime. Early to bed, you know. And it's four in the morning, so I guess that's early." Alex laughed and walked away.  
He did his best to slip back to his room but Walt had a nose like a bloodhound when it came to his crew. He sniffed Alex out or heard his stealthy footsteps—he had ears like a damn bat, he was a fucking bestiary, Alex thought….

He popped out of the hall washroom, "Alex—where the fuck have you been—no, never mind, don't tell me. Rehearsal's at ten, you're going to be there right? And hey, we got a new guy on the ivories. I was going to have you sit in but shit, he was good, genius, a fucking, anyway there's one thing. I—I—aw, fuck never mind, tell you tomorrow. Go to sleep." Walt squeezed his shoulder distractedly. Already on to other thoughts, he trotted down the hall, pulling one suspender back onto his bare shoulder, the other still hanging down and pointing out what a nicely shaped ass he had and Alex thought if the guy was just the slightest bit bent, he'd love to fuck him. Too bad. He took a deep breath, eased back into his room and got ready for bed.

@@@

Later that morning, Walt met him at the doorway at the back of the club. The joint was ugly as hell in the cold light of day, smelled like stale booze and cigarettes. He followed Walt inside, letting his voice roll over him like water, ground the heel of one hand between his eyes and prayed the gremlins in his head would stop drilling for brains.

The other fellows were on or around the bandstand; various squawks, squeaks, and trills beat against the air. Walt led Alex to the rear of the dance floor and sat him at one of the tables. He slapped a squat glass of amber liquid in front of him. Alex raised his eyebrows. "Hootch? It's eleven—" he skimmed his cuff back far enough to expose his watch, squinted at the coin face. "Ten."

"See, what we're doing here is—I'm telling you, this guy's—drink up, it's a celebration, this guy. The new pianist, he can jam—he's—he's really good. He swings out, I'm telling you—you're gonna get a kick out of this!"

Alex looked up to the bandstand. The piano was blocked by the other guys, he couldn't see the player but he listened to the run of pure notes resolve into a bit of classical music, listened to it subtly morph into a syncopated beat, a lilting, rolling ragtime…the bunch of guys blocking his view moved and he saw the man at the keyboards.

He gawped at the bandstand, rendered stupid with shock. "He's—he's—"

"Yeah, okay, yeah—he's um—you noticed—okay, but listen to him."

"He's a Negro!"

"So?"

"So? So? —are you nuts? How many clubs are gonna let us play them? Plus the Goons will have a fucking fit. You know Morty. He'll kill him and you and that wouldn't be so bad, but he might want to whack me, too. Fuck." Alex took the handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sudden bloom of chill sweat from his neck. He might just kill Walt himself.

Walt interrupted lighting a cigarette to respond to Alex. It bobbed on his lip as he spoke, dribbling ash. "Nah, that's not gonna happen—it's—things change—I'm telling you—times are changing. Lotsa bands have colored guys in them. Some. One or two, but—I'm telling you. Besides. He's—Pete," he yelled, "Hey, Ross, get down here," and the guy stopped playing and eased around the piano.

"Hey, Boss."

Alex looked him up and down. He was dark-skinned—the color of baking chocolate, his hair swept back in thick shining waves from a broad forehead, his dark eyes sparkled and full lips had him wondering—Alex blinked hard. Even the ill-fitting suit couldn't hide that this Pete was compact and stocky, muscular. Walt shot him a look and Alex shrugged. Good-looking was good-looking; it didn’t have a particular color. Most of the jamokes out there would only see that the guy was colored. Well, that was too bad for them. He glanced over at the stage and took note of who looked like they were trying to cough up a hairball.

"Pete, hey, this is my ace—my right hand—my man-ah—Alex, Alex Roth. Say hi—Pete Ross. He's going to—I'm telling you—this will really make the band."

They shook hands. Pete had a firm grip and a smooth palm, and Alex slid fingers against it when he pulled his hand back. Pete jumped a little and frowned. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Roth." He looked quickly away. "I'm going—" he jerked his head back to the band stand and Walt nodded.

"Well 'Boss','" Alex drawled, as he watched Pete stalk away. "I hope we all don't end up swimming in the East River in concrete skivvies. I'd hate to have to kill you." He grabbed Walt's cigarette from his lip, ignoring the affronted snort and dragged hard on it.

Walt glared at him and slid another one from behind his ear, left it dry in his mouth. "Yah, you're a wise guy, you are—I'm telling you, we're gold—-golden—we're copasetic. Get up there and blow. You should be earning the money I toss in your lap."

Alex winked, licked his lips with a mock lasciviousness. "There's more than one way to do that."  
He let a long plume of smoke dribble from his mouth and nose and batted eyelashes in his best Hollywood Vamp imitation and Walt snorted again.

"Homo. Get with the licorice stick."

Alex chuckled, and as he walked up to the bandstand with his case, felt Pete staring at him speculatively. Pete didn't look happy. Alex figured Pete would have to get the fuck past it….

@@@

The Boss and Alex got the summons shortly after the first performance featuring their new man on the ivories.

A couple of Morty's goons escorted them through the narrow hallway and under the stairs where Mort's 'office' was, a dark, dank room with a desk, a phone, a file cabinet whose top was covered with bottles in various states of full and not much else—Mort had a dozen different clubs that he moved booze and drugs through, and this one wasn't of much interest to him—until today.

"So what the fuck is this wit the nigger on the bandstand—you crazy?" Morty sat at the desk, big fat manicured fingers tapping out a staccato beat on the cherry-wood. "86 'm." He slipped a paw in his jacket and pulled out a torpedo of a cigar. He lit up, exhaled a cloud of smoke redolent with the pungent odor of road tar and burning garbage, sniffed in appreciation. Alex worked hard to keep his nose from wrinkling.

"Morty—you don't know. He's gonna bring in the customers—the kid's a genius—just listen—I'm telling you." Walt tried to smile.

Morty rolled the fat cigar around in his pale lips in a way that made Alex a little sick and said, "Genius my ass. Get the jig outa my joint." He stood and his narrow little eyes were chips of glass in his doughy face. "Get him out, and don’t give me shit about it or you'll all be cooling your fuckin' heels in the harbor."

Walt paled, and Alex settled a look of mild interest on his face, something he was able to do thanks to years of training, courtesy of Lionel Luthor. Dear Old Dad was a hard act to follow, but Mort was managing it. Walt swallowed loud enough to startle Alex. Walt's handsome face was creased in earnest appeal, worse, a dawning stubbornness…and anger. Always a real bad combination, especially in a guy like Walt.

Aw fuck you idiot, don't get salty now, Alex thought. I'm too young to die for something so stupid…

"I'll make—here's a deal—move us down to one of the minor clubs. If you make money—when you get the dough, we're back here—we headline with the Ross kid still our ivory man. No foolin' Mort, the crowds only care if the joint's jumpin' and Ross—swings hot, I'm telling you, you're gonna make money. More than you make with the booze—no jive."

Morty gave Walt a look that said 'in a minute I'm going to rip your puny little wings off'. The muscle standing around the tiny office shifted on their feet, arms spreading, hands opening, greedy little grins blooming—Alex swallowed, blinked, and rose to the balls of his feet too. Fuck if he was going down easy…

Morty snorted in amusement and the goons relaxed, grinning like it'd all been a joke. "Awright." Morty juggled the stub of the cigar into the corner of his mouth and sneered and Alex thought, 'There's the poor man's Little Caesar. Only not nearly as charming…'

"Okay, I must have a soft spot in my head for you fucks. You assholes better make me plenty dough." His flat dead eyes landed on Alex. "You, you can make me dough any time. I know you, I been watching you…" he grinned around the soggy stump of his cigar and Alex nearly threw up. He could imagine several different ways the low-class, slimy hood could make money off of him. He squared his shoulders and smiled at Morty with all the chill confidence he could muster and winked at him. "I don't think so, buddy boy. You're not my type." He heard Walt hiss, felt him tense even though they were a few feet apart.

Morty stared at him with the eyes of a shark. They all stood stock still in silence so deep, Alex could hear his watch tick…and unexpectedly, Mort burst out laughing. "You, you fucking always make me laugh. Getha fuck outa of my office," he snorted. "You got a month to show me something, yahear?"

Walt nodded frantically and jabbed Alex in the ribs hard enough to puncture a lung. "You won't regret this, Mort, I'm telling you—he's—genius. Top of the heap—" and he was moving to the door the whole time, pulling Alex. "Jesus fuck, say one word and I'll kill ya—" he hissed under his breath to Alex, and Alex looked at him like he was crazy or maybe Walt didn't know that Alex got just how close he was to losing everything this night.  
Walt had some trouble with some of the guys. Some resented moving out of a pretty hot spot and into a club so far below the venues they had played that calling it a dump was insulting a dump. Some of them didn’t want to play with a colored on the same stage with them, but only one guy dropped out of the band. Pete worked hard, took shit and kept going, and after a while, it was like he'd always been there, just one of the guys and besides, Walt went and told them up front he didn’t give a god damn what they thought—they were being paid to shut the fuck up and play. And they played. Some nights they got booed off the stage. When the booing stopped, it didn't mean the end of it—some nights, garbage would come flying up on the stage, or ropes…Pete just locked his eyes on some point and blew, he made the ivories dance and the crowd had to give in to him. He made them jump, he did, and the band, and Alex…they had the crowds in the palm of their hands. When Pete was blowing, he had their souls, Alex thought, and laughed…

Pete Ross and Alex Roth made the stage hot—and word spread that the Barrelhouse was jumping, the place to be.

Morty was at Walt like a tick on a dog, yapping about profit, cash in and more cash out, but soon he had to admit that the low rent, seedy joint was making him money like his uptown venues. He had to relent, and it wasn't long before they headlined the Al Kazar again.

Alex watched Pete deal with a thousand daily injustices with calm and dignity even though he had to be boiling inside, and came to the conclusion that Pete Ross was one brave man. Brave for putting up with the mugs and thugs, the squares who couldn't dig what he was saying, brave enough to take it, ignore it and keep on going. Pete became a point of interest to Alex. That calm acceptance made him curious. And things that made Alex curious had to be examined, turned and shaken until the answer fell out. He told himself it was for the good of their working relationship, but mostly, he just wanted to know.

@@@

"Pete."

Pete was shuffling his papers, just getting up from the piano. "You want something, Alex? I'm about to call it a night, grab some dinner and cop a nod. But, hey, if you need something I don't mind staying."

"Nah, I figured if you're going to eat, I'd go with you."

Pete stared at him like he'd lost his damn mind. He drew himself up and stiffly said, "You…I don't think you'd be comfortable, Mr. Alex."

"Alex. And why not?"

Pete looked away, and back. He stared at a point between Alex's second and third shirt button. "I'm eating with family. At home. My mom's house. I don’t think..."

"Well." Alex smiled slowly. "It's been a good long while since I've had a home-cooked meal. I sure wouldn't mind." He grinned, correctly reading Pete's expression as fuck, I'm stuck with the crazy bastard.

"Okay. I guess Ma won't mind. Too much."

Alex nodded. "Should I bring wine? Flowers?"

Pete stared some more. "Um. We don't. Ma don’t...if you like. "

Alex grinned. He liked the way Pete looked when he panicked. He wondered what he looked like when he was very happy….

They walked a couple of blocks past the hotels, down towards the colored part of town. Alex noticed he got more looks than usual. He didn’t know how he felt that this time it wasn't so much because he was bald but because he was white.

Pete led him up to the door of a neat, well-kept brownstone. The porch steps were clean swept; there were gingham curtains in the windows. Pete opened the door and hesitated for a minute, before sighing. "Okay," he said, and gestured for Alex to walk inside and it hit him—he was about to enter a home of the sort he'd never been in before. He had no idea how to act, or how they acted or even what they ate. He might have been rash—impulsive…stupid even, not that he intended to let it show in any aspect of his behavior. He drew himself up to his full height and looked down on Pete with a lopsided smile. "Lead on, oh Piano."

Pete stopped, and—smiled. His cheeks tightened, his eyes crinkled and for once his mouth held a real smile. He looked Alex right in the eyes and Alex was kind of stunned. Pete was really a looker, when he relaxed... "After you, oh Clarinet," Pete said.

They stepped into a neat little tile floored foyer, and Pete showed Alex where to hang his coat, on hooks screwed into the wall. He led him into a dining room filled with heavy dark furniture, ornately carved and black with age. At the head of a long table sat an older man, at his side a stately looking woman, and along the length of the table, two young men and a girl—Pete's family.

All eyes were locked on him and Alex felt a lot like he had that month he'd spent in Metro Children's Hospital, surrounded by doctors who wanted to know what made him tick. He summoned all the charm he possessed, and smiled… "Hello all, I'm Alex and I'm pleased to finally meet Pete's family." He held out the bunch of roses he'd bought on the way over to the stunned woman. "And you must be Pete's mother. You're even lovelier than he described."

Pete looked at him with pure shock on his face; he was the very picture of a man who'd been hit by a Mack truck.

"Mr. Alex is it? We’re so pleased to have you here, though if Pete had given us some warning, we would have had something more—suitable for dinner." She gave Pete a look that promised pain, pure and simple, and lots of it. "Pete," she said, "get some water for those flowers, honey." Alex clearly heard the unspoken, _"they’ll be needed for your funeral later."_

"Pete…." Alex started.

Pete ignored him and gathered up the roses. Alex realized that he'd actually put Pete and his mom in a touchy situation. He felt a pang of guilt.

Dinner was an odd affair, full of little conversational balloons that rose hopefully, turned to lead, and crashed. Alex kept smiling and eating. He loved cornbread and greens. He closed his eyes and sighed. He'd never felt so full before, a good full. He opened them to peep Pete's little sis staring at him, the minute their eyes met she blushed bright red and giggled.

Pete's brothers just stared at him as they ate. The two of them made a massive wall of scowling Black man. Lex gulped his sweet tea and tried to look everywhere but at them.

Was it wrong to think that they were hot to beat the band? There he went…thinking thoughts like that at Pete's mother's table…he really should be ashamed. He looked some more. He really should be. One of the brothers snorted, and finally turned his attention away. The other smiled just the tiniest bit and asked Alex if he'd like more black-eyed peas. He jerked his in a nod, and caught Pete's astonished look. Pete closed his mouth and shook his head. Alex hoped that meant something good.

After dinner, he played cards with them, and surprised himself by having a good time. Pete's little sis—Katie—kept his glass filled, and nearly heated the room with her blushing. At last Alex took pity on her and mentioned the early morning practice to Pete, and they gathered their coats and hats and set off for the hotel. Alex Promised Mrs. Ross he'd be back.  
"Thank you so much for having me, Mrs. Ross, Mr. Ross."

Pete's dad looked surprised and a little uncomfortable, but he managed a pretty decent smile back. "It was our pleasure, Mr. Alex. You're welcome back anytime."

They were halfway down the block before Alex asked Pete, "Did they mean it, you think? Would they mind if I came back?"

"Course not, Alex. They mean it, you’re welcome back anytime. I know Katie sure wants to have you back," Pete laughed. "And…strangely enough, looks like Simon wants you back too." Pete looked thoughtful, and shrugged. They walked back towards the subway. They rode back quietly, and Alex walked Pete to the boarding house he stayed in, a subway stop away from the one the rest of the band stayed. Alex hesitated on the stoop of the boarding house. "Pete…does your family know you're in the life?"

"Ah—what? Hell no. I'm not—ah shit." Pete rubbed his hands over his face. "You're troublesome. Is that your hobby?"

"Making trouble for innocent boys? Yeah. So, can I come up?"

"Trouble, that should be your name. All right, come up. Behave yourself."

"Come on. Behave's my middle name, Pete."  
Inside the hotel room, it was up to Alex to make the move. Pete stood still as a statue against the room's door, one hand on his tie, the other on the doorknob. Alex touched his cheek and he gasped, his eyes slammed shut.

"Say, I don’t have patience with tyros, have you done this before, right?" Alex asked with a frown. Pete nodded, but his expression was still mostly terror-filled. "I mean more than stroking off with your buddies when you were twelve…" Alex murmured.

A breathy 'yeah' exploded out of Pete and he grabbed the hand that was steadily moving upward under his shirt. "Yes," he said a little more forcefully. "A couple of times. In…in college."

"Yeah?" Alex looked surprised. He backed off and grinned wryly when Pete exhaled and relaxed—slightly. He took off his coat and tossed it over the single chair in the room. "You went to college? Where?" He took off his tie, and unbuttoned his shirt. He walked carefully, slowly back to Pete and did the same to him. "I don't think I ever met anyone colored before who went to college."

Pete watched Alex's long white fingers skate over his skin and swallowed. "Yeah. We don’t all watch your babies and wash your cars."

Alex laughed, "You think you can talk to me anyway you want because I'm after your dick?" and popped the top button on Pete's pants. "You're right." Popped the next one, and the next…watching Pete give into him like he was dying was making his blood boil. He cupped Pete—felt him twitch under his hand.

"Lincoln University," Pete gasped when Alex slid a hand into his undone fly.

"What?"

"Unh—where I went."

"Oh." Alex wrapped his hand around Pete's thick dick, slid it up and down, testing, smirked when he groaned. Alex pressed close and sucked in Pete's bottom lip like a slice of ripe fruit. He pinched the full soft flesh between his teeth, bit down just the tiniest bit, and Pete bucked in his grip.

Letting Pete's lip pop free, Alex said, "Princeton," with a good imitation of calm, as if he wasn't so hard he might die of it. He stepped back and shed the rest of his clothes. "Didn't graduate—I was disowned." He stood comfortably, completely naked and let Pete look him over from head to toe. Alex could see the questions forming in Pete's eyes. Didn't matter. He'd just have to wonder. He pumped his hand slowly over his dick. "Come on," he urged Pete. "Get over here with me."

Pete stripped off the rest of his clothes. In the low light of the bedside lamp, he was an onyx statue come to life and though his dick was nowhere near as huge as it was rumored blacks to be, it was generous enough. Besides, Alex preferred being bigger than his partners. He pushed against Pete, held their dicks in his hand. Not much bigger.

"Bachelor's Degree," Pete gasped. "Engineering. Dad insisted…shit." He thrust into the tunnel of Alex's hand, they both groaned when they slid and tugged against each other. The first questing bumps and lurches became a smooth hot slide together…

"God…can we take this to the bed," Pete groaned. "I—It's not much softer than the door but I don't have to fight coming and standing upright…"

Alex laughed, and with one hand on Pete, led him back to the bed. He laid him down, and told him to close his eyes and think of nothing at all. "Just this, feel this." He traced loops and swirls on Pete's smooth dark skin, enjoying the contrast in their tones…Pete was really quite beautiful. "You really are something fine, Pete." Pete didn’t respond, he shuddered all over, deeply. Alex licked his way down, nibbling, sucking. He came to Pete's dick, and holding it in one hand, nibbled along the length of the thick vein running on the underside, tried to get his tongue under the edge of his foreskin, and Pete moaned. "Alex—Alex—oh—"

Alex moved up and threw a leg over Pete's shoulder, so that his dick was nudging Pete's mouth, and Pete's dick slid in his own. Pete babbled a little, "I-I—don't, oh!" Pete opened and took him in. Gave in to him, and Alex groaned.

It was better than he imagined it would be, a little awkward, a little sloppy, but hot, so fucking hot. Pete took a second but he got it, sucked his dick like it was what he was born to do. Pete let his dick drop out of his mouth and a moment later Alex felt his mouth, his tongue on his balls, and groaned…Pete's dick was in his throat and he swallowed, and Pete howled. Sucked him back and seemed determined to make him scream too…orgasm hit him like a flash fire, and Pete swallowed and swallowed. His head dropped back and he panted hard—with a groan, Alex's name moaned long and low, he was coming too.

Alex swallowed, licked the inside of his mouth, and considered…there was no real difference in taste he could tell. Black, white, no real difference in feel, or smell. He smiled. He figured all along that was the case.

Pete patted his shoulder gently. "Get off. You're heavy. Not that I don’t appreciate the orgasm."

Alex laughed. "You're funny, Pete. I like that."

Pete yawned. "So what happens next?"

Alex said, "Well, I'm gonna knock me a nod, then get up before the sun and slink off home. And at rehearsal we just—do what we do." He sat up, and grabbed a pack off the table. "I don't do dates, Pete. I'm one time strictly."

Pete grabbed his cigarette and took a drag; put it back in Alex's mouth. "There's that. And the fact I'm a colored and you’re a white boy and that's not the least of the law we're breaking here. And frankly, you ain't worth dying over."

Alex smoked, and rubbed his belly reflectively. "I like you Ross. I do. You're smarter than anyone else in that band, except maybe Walt. Maybe."

"I'm not fucking with you again," Pete said. "Most we should be is friends—and I guess I do want to be your friend." His expression said don’t ask me why, and Alex had to grin. "Probably be more trouble than it's worth," he muttered.

"Good, I want to be friends too. We need each other, right?" Alex said, and Pete nodded. He rolled off the bed and stood in one smooth movement and Alex admired the swing of his dick—now it was soft, the foreskin hung over the tip in a way that begged to be nibbled…Pete rested one hand on the edge of the bed, and ran the back of his other hand over Alex's glass smooth skin. He knew what the boy was feeling, but he didn’t ask at all and Alex figured, he'd made a good choice. "I don't fuck my friends, Pete."

Pete frowned. "Okay, I heard you the first time…so what was this, a test?"

He laid back and dropped his head to the mostly flat pillow. "Curiosity. I had to know, sorry."

"You had to know wha—oh. You…" Pete looked at him, the frown deepening a furrow between his brows. Opened his mouth—closed it again. Whatever he'd been about to say, he'd changed his mind. Instead he said, "You’re an asshole, you know that?"

Alex blew a smoke ring, chased it with a few smaller ones, and said, _"nosce te ipsum,_ my friend."

Pete snorted, "Know thyself, eh? You think you do?"

Unexpectedly, Pete's teasing remark opened a well of sadness. "I don't think anyone else cares to," he sighed quietly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Smallville**  
Clark opened his eyes and stepped back with a shy little smile. He felt good, warm and relaxed. He was sure that he'd done it right; he felt it in his bones. His throat felt a little tight, but he'd get better—he knew every time he'd get better, because Mr. Banner would teach him the right way. He wiped his damp palms on his thighs and blushed. Mr. Banner was smiling at him. Maybe he had sounded as good as he'd hoped. The rest of the choir headed off the stage, chattering and laughing. Mr. Banner called him over before he could follow the rest.

"Clark, very well done. You're sure your parents are going to let you take the solo spot?"

"I'm pretty sure. My mom said she'd get my dad to agree…" he stopped at Mr. Banner's frown.

"Clark," he said gently, "the performance is Sunday night…I can't risk that we'll not have our soloist that night. I'm going to have to give it to Kevin. I'm, sorry, because I do think you sing it very well."

Clark wanted to shout, to break something, but he just nodded and said, "Of course, sir, I understand."

He walked home slowly, feeling weighed down by disappointment. He'd really wanted that spot, he'd wanted that chance to shine at something, if only for a brief moment. He'd had every faith that Mom would change his dad's mind. He _knew_ that if Dad understood how important it was to him, he wouldn’t refuse him. It wasn't like baseball, or football, where he might accidentally hurt someone….oh gosh. What he should do was think of all he had to be thankful for—he had choir and church, something he shared with his mother, his sister. Dad…well, Dad didn't go much beyond Christmas and Easter. Not that Dad didn’t believe, he just didn't believe in church, something Clark didn’t understand. He loved going to church. It was the one place he felt like himself. In church, he felt God, felt loved, felt…normal. God understood what was in his heart. He stopped and sighed. Of course, he knew too that his dad wasn't doing what he did out of spite. Dad was probably right about all the things he was worried about.

Just…he strolled on, hurrying a little as it got dark. It was just…having to be average in school and everywhere else was hard work. Sure, Dad knew it was, he said he did, but he couldn't really know. No one could. Besides, Dad might be worried for him, but he worried about everyone. He knew there were people in the world who'd want to hurt someone like him, hurt his family just because he was different.

A rustle of movement off the roadside jerked Clark back to full attention of his surroundings—for a moment, he swore twin points of bright green light were gleaming in the bushes, and shuddered. He hoped desperately it wasn't one of those things that popped up in Smallville too frequently. He remembered that one winter when the man who owned the field adjoining theirs walked naked from his house to theirs, snow exploding into steam with each footstep and all the way he screamed 'won't be cold no more.' He'd burst into flame and burned to a crisp in their yard. Took a tool shed with him…the fire had been tinged a violent green…Clark shivered again. Green like the rock scattered across Smallville, the stuff that made people go all odd, changed them in bad ways sometimes—made him so sick he wanted to die...he touched a little cross made of silver, decorated with a tiny, tiny chip of the green stone. It flared slightly when he touched it.

In very small amounts it was God's answers to his prayers to be normal….

@@@

Once he arrived home, any thought of his disappointment was pushed away. He went to his room, took off his good shirt and trousers, and put on his working clothes. His overalls were pretty well worn, the denim nearly white with age and washing, much more comfortable than his school clothes. Clark whistled a little, sang a little as he headed out to the yard. His routine was comfortable too—necessary even, more so in the last year after…after finding everything—all of it—out. Nearly every day, it was the same. He did his evening chores, then came dinner and after that, homework. Wednesdays, there was church after dinner, and choir practice. If his parents didn’t need a babysitter or any extra chores done, he went to the library, and every once in a while, the movies. That was an extra special kind of treat, mostly after he'd managed to save money. Most times, he'd take his little sister. She loved movies as much as he did, and she was pretty good company for a little kid.  
He trotted down the steps of his room in the barn's loft and out to the chicken coop. He filled a feed bucket for the chickens, singing something he'd heard on the radio on his way out to the yard—Mom must be listening to her soap opera. She was probably in the living room with Hannah, shelling peas or something. He could look if he tried really hard, but he didn't like to.

The dusty smell of the coop made him grimace; tan dust rose around his feet as he shuffled around the fenced-in feed area. He filled the troughs and ignored the chickens scolding him, crazy reptilian eyes focused on him as he checked their water. He snarled at the rooster. They had an adversarial relationship—the damn bird always looked like it was one second from trying to attack him. "Try it," he muttered, "you'll be sorry." He glanced guiltily towards the farmhouse. Getting angry was a big nix. Angry meant loss of control, and loss of control could lead to accidents. He'd had it drummed into his head for so long, that losing his temper made him feel really bad—guilty as heck. He was used to his life as balancing act, it was pretty much second nature to him. There were times, though, that it felt like there were two Clarks inside him—a good Clark, and a bad Clark, and bad Clark was the one who sometimes entertained the thought it might be worth a blazing headache to singe that rooster's tail feathers.

 

Done with the chickens, he left their little kingdom to head to the truck sheds. The row of open fronted sheds held their truck, and the older of a pair of tractors they owned, plus bits of various vehicles Dad cannibalized to keep the truck going. Even though they hadn't been hit quite as hard as other parts of the state, the drought had still been a harsh lesson for the farmers in this area. People didn't waste—no one threw anything that had potential use away, and boy, had his dad elevated thrift to an art.

He glanced in the open fronted shed to see if his dad was there—no sign of him. Clark walked past the shed and headed towards the barn, walking around the wooden field carts. He eyed them, checked for repair work that might be needed…no sign of Dad there either, so he must be up in the field, or over in their little apple orchard. Clark turned around and headed back to the pump to finish up his chores. He filled buckets with water, brought them to the cow shed. He filled their troughs and then filled a bucket for himself and lugged it into the barn. He took off his shirt and hung it on a nail put there just for that, and washed down quickly. The sound of the tractor getting louder and louder in the distance—Dad was on his way back from the orchard. He refilled the bucket with clean water for his dad so he wouldn't have to, and headed to the house.

His sister greeted him first. "Clark," she yelled as he came in through the screen door. "Come look what we did today!" She proudly showed him a plate on which lumpy cookies sat, still warm. "They're oatmeal," she said seriously. "Oatmeal is very healthy for you."

His mom smiled, winked at him, and he smiled back. "Well, they're just beautiful, Hannah. I hate to eat them, they look so pretty."

"Oh, no! Me and Mom made them to eat. You have to eat them or that would be wasteful," she said firmly.

"Promise, if it's okay, I'll have one after dinner. Is there anything I can do, ma'am?" he asked his mom.

"No, Clark, as soon as Dad comes in, we can eat—and here he is."

A tall man with dark blond hair strolled into the room, hanging his jacket by the door. "Mom, Hannah, Clark. I guess we're ready to eat, right?"

His mom smiled, and Clark and Hannah both smiled in return. When his mom smiled, it was like the sun coming out. Clark had no idea how much the same it was with him.

"Sit down, Jon. Hannah honey, get the lemonade, will you?"

Hannah climbed off her chair, and brought a pitcher of lemonade to the table, and they waited as she carefully poured glasses for them all, relishing the responsibility.

Dad led them in saying grace and they ate, and chatted about their day, his mom telling them about the new store opening on Main, she'd heard about it at the dry goods store.

"Mr. Arkham said it was a sure bet to go under—just too many things. People like personal service, he says. I think he's right."

His dad nodded, and chewed thoughtfully. "Mmm. Though, it sure would be handy to go to one place and get what ya needed. Time saver. The big cities have had them for years. Department stores. Time we had our own."

His mom didn't look convinced, but that's the way it was—she was kind of slow to accept change, but Dad was pretty excited in his own way about it. He liked gadgets, he liked the new, he liked a mystery…Clark smiled at him. Lucky for him, he guessed, or who knew what would have happened to that baby boy dropped in the cornfield that day. Dad was his hero, sure as could be. Without him…Clark's fingers closed on the tiny silver cross…it was his dad's help that made him appear to be a normal guy.

After dinner, he went up to his room over the barn floor. He lit the lantern and started in on his homework. A few quiet minutes went by and he heard footsteps on the stair. He smiled, had to be Hannah, and there she was holding a book and a stuffed cat Mom had made her years back.  
"Clark, I noticed you seemed a little down tonight. I know how much you enjoy reading to me…" she held out the book with a slightly challenging look, daring her brother to even hint that her generosity might not be entirely selfless. "I'm too old to be read to, but I know it's comforting to you."

He sat back in his chair and nodded. "You're very observant, Miss Hannah. I was indeed feeling a little off my feed tonight. And I'd be pleased to read a bit to you—just to make me feel better, of course."

She nodded solemnly." Of course."

He stood and put his book down. "We can read in your room, in case you fall asleep, though with my dramatic enactment of all the scenes, that's hardly going to happen, is it?"

"Well," she said, "it has happened that I've fallen asleep." She grinned. "But I blame that on Beans. He's just too warm and cuddly."

Clark nodded. "That's why he's my favorite too."

She handed him the cat, and speaking so seriously, Clark knew it would be awful to smile, she said, "Clark…it's okay. Whatever's bothering you, it's okay. And don’t worry about being too old for Beans. I'll keep your secret." She grinned at him. "I'm pretty good at that, big brother."

He pulled her pony tail. "You sure are, Banana, you are good at that."

@@@

The kids were walking home from school. They were a little louder, a little more animated than usual. Summer break was right around the corner, and most of them couldn’t wait to be done with it for a few months.

They trailed more or less in single and double file along the gravel run off of the road bed, pretty much keeping to the school pecking order, which meant the most popular were in the lead and the less so behind. Clark took the last position, but not because he was unpopular—he sighed. He'd have to be noticed to be unpopular. He was Mr. Nobody until they needed someone who could hold a tune, or hang a sign without using a ladder.

Clark watched Lana from his distance, watching what she did, who she talked to. Clark always watched her, had since they were kids. All this time, and she was still a mystery to him, a very beautiful mystery. What did she think of, what did she want from life, what did she love? It was important to him, what she cared about. He'd have elaborate fantasies in which he found out what her heart's desire was—which was mostly him, in some way or form. It all tended to be vague, nebulous…he sighed heavily. Making love to Lana was going to stay a dream at this rate.

The group slowed, and wandered a bit as some of them scrambled down the side of the road to pick berries, polishing as much dust off as they could before popping them into their mouths—mostly it was the boys chowing down. The girls filled handkerchiefs of berries to take home and wash. Clark shook his head. That was a waste. Berries picked at the height of the afternoon sun were warm and especially juicy, delicious. Clark noted where they were having the most success—he might bring Hannah out with him later and pick some. If he got enough, Mom might make a cobbler….

He grabbed a handful of gravel from the road's runoff, and flicked stones into the fields as they walked along. The smell of honeysuckle and crushed blackberries hung heavy in the air, riding on the dry smell of dust. He took a sniff, and thought hard, pushing what little he could access of his powers to the limits. He sniffed for the smell of rain, but it wasn't there, just dry and …heat. His concentration centered on Lana as she walked prettily along the road, moving gracefully as a dancer. He sighed. She moved like…like music. A song flitted through his head, watching her walk…

_My love must be a kind of blind love…I can't see anyone but you...._

The top buttons of her blouse were undone for the heat, and there were little patches of wet at her arm pits she'd probably be embarrassed to know were there and it might be crazy but the look of her slightly wilted in the heat somehow made him feel…tighter in…places. Sweat beaded at her hairline, and she patted it away with a cotton handkerchief. She tilted her head back a bit, arched her neck and patted away drops and Clark felt…heavy, hot…tight. He raised his arm and wiped away sweat on his own forehead, took off his tie jammed it in a pants pocket and eased the tails of his shirt out ever so casually.

Heat shimmers danced on the road, and the dry, clear air sent the voices of Lana and her friends back to him without him trying to hear.

"—and then, she called on Alice, and Alice hadn’t done the reading poor thing—"

Lana's voice came to him full of disapproval—"You mustn't laugh, Alice is having a hard time. Her mother's sick—"

"The Gold Diggers at the Talon? It's awfully good—"

"—new soda jerk is so cute—but not cuter than your Whitney—"

Clark grimaced. Whitney was the new boy in school; his father owned the new store on Main, the one his mom had been skeptical about. He was good-looking, or so all the girls seemed to think, falling all over their feet after him, going on about how dreamy he was and how great he and Lana went together. In the few months he'd lived in town, he'd managed to do what Clark hoped for years to do—he caught the town's prettiest girl. _And_ he was captain of the football team, _and_ he was a star on the basketball team, heck—the baseball team too— he was tall, blond, and blue-eyed, and yes, he was movie star handsome. Clark hated him viciously for just a bit. He stumbled, stopped and rubbed hard at his eyes—his vision was blurry, and it took a moment for it to ease and by the time it did, he was cool again and embarrassed that he'd gotten so mad.

A familiar sound behind him made him slow. He smelled gasoline, and heard that the truck coming up behind them needed to be tuned… driving up the road towards them was Whitney, in his shiny red truck, almost brand new—the kind of thing Clark's family would probably never have. Well, Whitney might be rich, but Dad and he knew how to keep that nice truck running like it should, something _Whitney_ obviously didn't.

Whitney passed slowly, and tossed Clark a wave as he drove past. Clark tried not to frown, and waved back politely like he was taught to. Whitney didn’t have to wave—he had to know Clark had it bad for his girl, everyone did. He always treated him pretty decent. Clark wasn't sure he'd be that way if their situations were reversed. Didn't make him like him any much more…

When the truck pulled up to Lana's little group of girlfriends, they squealed and laughed, red-faced with heat and giggling, they dared each other to be the first to climb into the back. Clark watched the love of his life laugh and smile, and sighed. He'd had that smile directed at him on rare occasions, and each time it'd felt like he was suddenly on fire.

As they drove away, she looked up the road, and caught his eye—she waved at him, and as the truck sped up, the little bow tying her hair back began flapping wildly—she laughed and grabbed it to keep it from blowing away and he was forgotten.

Clark was in a trance, overpowered by the smile, the wave—oh, she was absolutely beautiful, the kind of beauty that was more than the grace of youth. Her beauty was on the inside as well as out—it was classic, timeless. She'd never fade, never change—she'd be beautiful in one way or another forever.

The truck roared away and waves of dust flowed toward him. Great. He licked his lips; grit sticking to them made it an unpleasant experience. He wondered, what was it like to be rich like Whitney; he was so in control, handsome and popular. Clark shook his head. It had to be good; it had to be really good.

@@@

_"… Let the rain pitter patter_  
But it really doesn't matter  
If the skies are gray  
Long as I can be with you it's a lovely day!"

…the last notes of the uneven duet died away and they burst into laughter. Clark was just clearing away the last of his homework from the kitchen table, and his mother was just putting bread under a towel and setting it on the shelf over the stove to rise. Clark figured now was a good time to try and take advantage of Mom's good mood. "Mom, Hannah's birthday is coming up."

"Really Clark? Thank you, I had no idea."

"Har-de-har, Mom, you're a regular Jack Benny, you are."

She snickered, and dropped a bowl of potatoes in front of him. "Work and talk."

He sighed, and started peeling. "Anyway, for her birthday, I want to take her to the movies. She wants to see that Gold Diggers movie."

"Oh, Clark, I don't think that's exactly the kind of movie a little girl should see. I mean, there are girls in tiny costumes, and rough language…"

"Mom. The language isn't anywhere near as rough as Dad's when he's working on the trucks, and so what if the girls wear tiny costumes? Hannah's a girl too. Besides, she's smart enough to tell the difference between what's real and what's a load of soap. She likes the music and the dancing and so do I." He looked at her, trying not to look defiant, just trying to impress on her how serious he was.

His mom was looking at him in an odd way; a look he couldn't put a name to because he'd never seen it before…sort of concerned…and maybe embarrassed…"Mom?" The minute the word left his mouth, he knew he should have kept it zipped, because Mom took it as an invitation to charge ahead—and Clark knew this was not a conversation he wanted to have.

"Clark…you do like girls, right?"

"Mom!"

"I'm not trying to pry! Not too much anyway…" She stopped and flushed a bright red and seemed to be looking for a way to go on. "Son. I guess the easiest way I can put it is like this…the Lord made the animals, each with a mate…um…pairs. Um." She looked down at the floor, than back up. "Clark." She looked at him helplessly, and Clark understood.

"Oh. Oh." He knew the story of his discovery; he'd known as far back as he could remember. From the moment he could understand that he was different, when it became obvious he was, Mom and Dad explained as best they could how he came to be. After last year when he'd seen it in the root cellar, he knew that his cradle wasn't made of maple, like Hannah's, it was made of stuff from the stars. And Mom was worried—she wasn't the only one. Maybe since he was some kind of Flash Gordon thing that fell out of the sky, since he wasn't meant to be here, maybe there was no one, no soul-mate somewhere out there waiting for him. Or living up the street…

"There…there is a girl. Will be…someday, I hope. You know Lana. I care for her lots. She makes me—" he coughed. Geez, he almost told her just exactly how she made him feel. "She makes me smile. She makes me happy. I feel that…we're meant to be..." she just doesn’t know I exist.

His mom came to the table and kissed him right between the eyes and he grinned. "I'm glad. And I think—I'm just being silly. And speaking of something else that makes you happy, when do we get to meet your friend?"

Clark stopped peeling and looked at his mom in confusion. "Friend?"

"Yes, Whitney. We keep hearing about this great guy, how 'cool' he is," she smiled, and Clark tried not to snicker at her use of slang.

Whitney? Clark tried to remember the times he'd talked about him—he hadn't realized he'd talked about him at all. Before he could answer Mom glanced up at the rooster shaped clock over the oven. "Hannah should be home from her Brownie troop meeting any minute now. Will you go to the gate to meet her?"

Clark nodded, and as he pushed away from the table, his mom reached out and laid her hand over his. He looked down and thought, so soft, so…tiny. Hunh.

"Clark, one other thing…I know that the Lord has infinite patience, and infinite love. I can't believe that He'd not make someone for everyone, no matter what."

Clark smiled a little. "I know Mom." He had to believe that with all his heart.

"I don’t think He'd make you full of the will to love, and not provide a love for you. When you meet that special someone, whether it's Lana or another girl, I'm certain—it _will_ have been meant to be. Sort of…written in the stars." She smiled at him, her eyes bright in that way that told him that she just might be ready to shed a tear. Time to scram. He couldn't see his mom cry. He drew his hand carefully out from under hers.

"Unh-hunh," he replied and high-tailed it out the kitchen. Mom cared a lot about him, he knew that. So he wasn't going to worry for one second that Mom was thinking about his possible love life. He did enough of that on his own.

That train of thought was thankfully derailed when Hannah came flying up, ringing the bell on her bike and whooping wildly. Monkey, their big part shepherd, part mutt, tore out of the gate behind Clark to catch up with her, barking and running so close to her wheels that Clark worried but they both made it up the drive in one piece.

"Clark, Clark—we had such fun today! We had the best time!"

"I'm so glad—ready for more good news?"

She nodded briskly, her red pigtails dancing crazily, her blue eyes round as dollars.

"Guess who's going to see a grown-up movie tomorrow?"

She hopped up and down impatiently. "Who—what—oh my! I'm going to see the Gold Diggers! Oh Clark!"

"Happy birthday, Hannah."

She threw her arms around him and crowed, "You're the best big brother there ever was! I'm so excited—let's go pick out what you're going to wear."

Clark swung her up into the air easily, and settled her on his shoulders. She clapped a hand on her beanie to keep it from flying off and laughed.

"I can dress my self, I'm a big boy." he said in mock anger.

"Hunh," she said, and kicked his ribs like he was a pony. "You're a big boy with no taste. I wouldn’t steer you wrong, Clark. A woman knows these things."

He fought hard not to laugh, and she patted him on his head. "I'll always take care of you, Clark."

"Thank you, Banana. You don't know what that means to me."

"Don't step on Monkey," she said.

 

_Songs in this section_  
I Only Have Eyes For You by Harry Warren and Al Dubin  
[Isn't It A Lovely Day by Irving Berlin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=83wO3RcxGCc)

Clark and Hannah took the shortcut into town, through the fields. Hannah solemnly swore not to say a word to their parents, so Clark slipped the chain off and handed it to her. "This way, if anyone or thing tries to bother us…" he blushed a deep red. “Are you sure it's okay—with you? I know…"

"Clark, I'm fine. You know you can be yourself around me." She hugged him, and he squeezed her before letting her go.

"Okay. Race you to the road?"

She looked completely skeptical. "Are you kidding? So you can cheat? Heck no, we're walking."

"So lead the way!" Clark laughed when she immediately took off running as fast as she could.

He paced her, letting her run like she was all alone, letting her feel a touch of freedom, all the while keeping alert to any noise or movement out of the ordinary in the corn. He caught up with her, just like she expected, and tossed her onto his shoulders and they walked like that the rest of the way to town. At the edge of town, he bent on one knee so she could drop the chain back around his neck. It sent waves of cold nausea through him for long moments, and Hannah held his hands as he readjusted to the feeling, her eyes dark in pained sympathy.

"I'm sorry Clark. I love you."

He stood again, ruffled her hair. "I know, Miss Banana."

The walk to Main Street was short and they were outside of the theater in a few minutes. The Talon looked bright and inviting and even outside on the sidewalk, the smell of warm buttery popcorn enticed them. Hannah whispered to Clark, "You know, they have fans that blow the smell out to the sidewalk."

Clark listened seriously. "Oh really?"

"Oh yes, everyone knows that. Well, except for you," she said, and patted Clark's hand.

The theater was quite a sight at night, Clark thought. The hundreds of light bulbs lighting up the dark spelled 'Talon' single file over the building's marquee and outlined posters advertising movies yet to come. They stood in line, arguing the merits of Jujyfruits opposed to Good'n'Plentys, decided they had enough for both and popcorn because it was her birthday.

Clark looked around idly, not really expecting to see anyone he knew from school, and he was surprised to see Lana and Whitney in line a few couples ahead of them. Pleasantly surprised when Lana turned, saw him too, and with a smile said, "Clark!" and waved Hannah and him up to stand with them. She really did look pleased to see him, and that made him warm. Whitney grinned, "Hey, Kent. That your date? She's a little young for you, don't you think? Right, short stuff?" He winked at Hannah, and just smirked when she scowled at him. She looked like she was about to explode, so Clark quickly cut in, "My sister's birthday is today and I promised her a movie." He dropped a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. Please, Hannah, don't embarrass me now.

Lana put one hand to her mouth, and made a little sound that brought blood to Clark's cheeks. "Oh, that's too sweet. Isn’t that sweet, Whitney? You're a good brother, Clark," and she looked so warmly at him that Clark thought he just might explode. Hannah frowned but didn’t say a word, and Whitney grumbled. "Cripes. I was only teasing. I guess it is nice of you, Clark."

"Oh, sit with us," Lana said, "if you don't mind I mean," she quickly added, with one of her wonderful thousand watt smiles, to Hannah. "The guys can get candy for us, and we can watch the newsreel." She bent down the tiny bit she had to and whispered conspiratorially to Hannah, "I entered the raffle too."

Hannah searched Lana's eyes, and then apparently her decision made, smiled back. "Okay."

Lana held her hand out, and Hannah took it, and like old friends, they walked together inside the theater.

Clark watched them, crossed his arms over his chest unaware of the little frown on his face. Geez, Whitney dates her, my sister is suddenly her best buddy…oh gosh, I'm jealous of my own sister. What a goon I am…He straightened and glanced over at Whitney. Whitney was staring at him, and Clark could feel his cheeks burn. "I—I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to break in on your date…"

"Hey, don’t sweat it, kid. Lana and me don’t mind company from time to time. Not like it's our last shot to be alone, if you get me. Besides, your kid sister's real cute." He laughed, "And judging from the look she tossed me, she can be a real handful, hunh?"

"Yeah, but mostly she's a good kid. Sweet as pie. We're pretty good friends." He dropped his head. "Oh boy, I sound like a real goof."

"Nah, nothing to be embarrassed about, Kent." Whitney's voice was strangely soft and Clark looked up to catch Whitney looking…nice. Friendly…kind of…Clark couldn't decide how he looked, but he got how Lana could go out with him. He wasn't always a wiseguy. "It's nice. I don’t have any brothers or sisters. Must be great to have built in friends."

Clark chuckled. "Well, depends on who you're talking to, I guess."

Whitney laughed and pushed Clark through the Talon doors with a hand between his shoulder blades—he left it there for a second before slapping him lightly on the back of the neck. "Pops are my treat, Clark."

They got snacks for themselves and for their girls and let the usher lead them into the dark. Whitney stopped just inside the door and said, "Oh, and by the way, just so you know—you’re not sitting next to Lana."

Clark thought he'd die from embarrassment. "Oh Whitney, I—hey, I—geez..."

"It's okay, Kent—you can start breathing again. You know I'm just pulling your leg." He grinned as he was saying it, and laughed aloud when Clark looked utterly miserable. He reached out and shook Clark by the shoulder, "Buck up, little buckaroo! Come on, let's go give the ladies their treats."

@@@

On the tall screen in front of them, a couple danced so perfectly in tune with each other they flowed like water across the stage…the music bounced and floated and he and Hannah found themselves humming along. The couple moved apart, and the woman danced away off-screen and when the camera found her again, she brought with her a brigade of dancers, boys and girls, their heels pounding out the beat, so many people tapping together, moving in intricate patterns…Clark breathed, "Wow…" and Hannah grabbed his hand, squeezed. Whitney was in the seat next to him—he turned his head and smirked at Clark. "Yeah, wow," and winked. "Nice costumes on the frills."

"Whitney!" Lana admonished, and slapped him on the knee.

The girls' costumes _were_ a little skimpy, Clark thought guiltily, but Hannah didn't even notice, she was as entranced by the dancers amazing ability as he was. The camera lingered over the dancers' legs and he heard Whitney snort, it followed the boy dancers as they tapped wildly, ferociously—Whitney snorted again but did sound kind of impressed. Clark had a hard time looking away from those dancers—they were dashing, handsome, they danced like it was life to them—like they might just explode if they couldn't dance—

The camera floated back to the girls with their shimmering eyes and perfect mouths. "They're beautiful," Hannah sighed and Clark let go of the breath he'd been holding and just said, "Yeah." They were perfect—flawless and more perfect than life. Like Lana. And Whitney loved Lana and Lana loved Whitney…Clark watched the shimmering bodies move, hummed along with the music. He wished for just one day he could be as precise and as perfect as those girls. Beautiful for one day….

_Good night, baby_  
Good night, milkman's on his way  
Sleep tight, baby  
Sleep tight, let's call it a day… 

Whitney nudged him, and he blushed violently. "Oh—was I singing again?"

Whitney snickered. "It's okay," he whispered. "We like it," and Lana cast a glance at him too and nodded.

After the movie, they walked home together, Clark and Lana swinging Hannah between them. They sang a song from the movie, and Hannah made Clark sing a song from a cartoon they both liked, not that Clark was eager to advertise it. He managed to watch Lana without watching her. Hannah whispered something to her, and she tossed her head back with a laugh—unconcerned, loud, happy—she was gorgeous, her eyes sparkled and her lips gleamed just like the movie girls', her hair shimmered in the moonlight…with a start of guilt he remembered Whitney was behind them. He looked back to catch Whitney watching them and the look on his face was unsettling—too hungry, too wanting—for Clark to see. A look probably like the one on his own face when he looked at Whitney's girlfriend. Clark dropped his eyes and blushed, hot and miserable.

 

_Songs this section_  
Lullaby of Broadway by Harry Warren and Al Dubin  
The [movie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rTgGCBeLZGg) Clark and Hannah watched 

@@@

Hannah sat on the top fence railing running along the drive and watched Clark attempt to toss a basketball through an old bottomless bushel basket that he'd nailed over the closed barn doors. Over and over he threw it and sweat was making his hair curl around his ears, his forehead. He shuffled, bounced the ball on the asphalt apron in front of the barn doors, grabbed it, and spun—and dropped the ball. "Oh! Whit, hi," he grinned.

"Clark. Working up a sweat, hunh? Not too bad. I can give you some pointers, if you like—"

"He knows what he's doing," an offended Hannah shouted. "He's good."

Clark groaned and dropped his head. "Hannah…"

Whit smiled. "Well, Short Stuff, he is good, but he could be better." She scowled and leaned against the fence posts, kicking her heel into the dirt.

Clark grinned and shrugged at Whit, dismissing Hannah's outburst. "I do it for fun. It's just a game that's easy to play by yourself," he said and winced inwardly. Did that sound like a play for sympathy? Whit knew as well as anyone Clark had no other close friends, but Whit didn't respond to what he said—he just grabbed the ball and with a smirk at Clark, whisked it though the basket one, two, three, like it was nothing.

For the next few hours, he worked with Clark…he was by turns patient, teasing, bullying—he was so much fun, Clark forgot this was the guy who stood between him and Lana. Whit wasn't The Guy In The Way; he was a friend.

Whit sat on the ground and used his shirt to wipe sweat from his face, called out pointers from the side line. Once he jumped up, and manhandled Clark into what he considered was the correct stance, and he smelled of sweat and bayberry and pomade, and it seemed it was all Clark could smell... "You okay? Got it?" Whit asked.

Clark pulled away, and smiled…"Yeah—I—think I have it."

They fought back and forth over the asphalt, and neither noticed when Hannah left....

After a bit Whit called time. "Where's your well, Kent? I'm about to die of thirst."

"Oh yeah," Clark said quickly. "Me too." He'd barely noticed the heat, but he was quick to agree with Whit that it was something awful, and they were certainly in dire need of lots of cold, clean, water. At the pump, Whit held the bucket, the muscles in his arm tensing and relaxing as he shifted his grip to accommodate the growing weight in the tin bucket and Clark didn't want to watch but it was like a rhythm he couldn't ignore…Whit set the bucket down, and urged Clark to take the first drink. Clark closed his eyes, drank until he thought it should be enough. With a sigh, he opened his eyes and wiped his mouth. Poor Whit looked flushed with the heat, so dry he was licking his lips and Clark figured he'd waited long enough. "Drink up, Whit, before you drop."

He smiled, took the ladle and tilted his head back, drank, great nonstop swallows that made his Adam's apple move in the thick column of his throat and there it was again, that fascinating rhythm….

"Clark! Where are you!"

Clark felt a deep dash of unease, and exhaled gratefully when Hannah's blonde curls bounced around the corner.

Whit grinned at her, and settled on the edge of the pump's platform. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a dented pack of cigarettes. He tapped it on the wooden edge and a single cigarette popped out. "Want one?" he asked Clark and held the pack out. Clark looked at Hannah and said, "Sure."

He watched Whit light his cigarette, watched him inhale and thought that he really was like a movie star. He took a tentative puff of his own, a quick in and out of breath and Hannah gasped. "Clark! Mom and dad will have a fit!"

Whit smiled at her. "But you aren't going to tell are you? You don’t want your big brother getting in trouble do you?"

Hannah folded her arms over her chest and glared at Whit. "You know, ever since you and Clark have been friends, he's always this close—" she held her thumb and forefinger a scant inch apart—"to getting in trouble. You're a bad influence, and I don't like it." She stomped off and Whit snorted.

"Wow. What do you think about that, Kent?"

"I'm…I'm sorry. She. She looks out for me, that's all. We used to be each other's only friend and now…" He blushed. Whit had never said they were friends, but…he hoped.

"You gotta explain to her just because me and you are friends doesn’t mean Short Stuff still isn't your best buddy," Whit said casually and made Clark's heart swell.

"Yeah," he said. As long as she was, she probably wouldn’t tell Mom and Dad he'd ditched school with Whit a couple of times, and stood look-out once or twice when he lifted things from the five and dime…which wasn't as bad as it seemed because it was only small cheap stuff and he didn’t do it much. Clark tried not to wonder why a rich kid would do that. He took another quick shallow puff and butt out the cigarette, handed it back to Whit. Whit tossed the end of his own away and lit the butt Clark gave him. His lips were pressed around the end and he stared at Clark. He lifted fingers to his mouth and peeled a bit of tobacco away…he looked like a movie star. Handsome as Gary Cooper, Clark thought.

@@@

_Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,_  
That saved a wretch like me.  
I once was lost but now am found,  
Was blind, but now I see.

The sound of the piano faded away, and they sat, Clark sandwiched between Hannah and his mom, and the pastor talked about honesty, and how the devil wasn't hideous, he was far from ugly and when he tried to talk to you, his voice was like honey and his touch was like that of a friend, and seriously, Clark had to fight to keep from kicking Hannah in the shins, because his were sure taking a beating from her. His mom even scolded her for fidgeting and Clark was very grateful when the younger kids left for Sunday school. Whit wasn't like the devil for cryin' out loud. He was just…feisty. Full of thoughts and ideas and sometimes Smallville was just a little too small for him. Clark huffed. Besides, what was Hannah worried about? He wasn't stupid—he knew when enough was enough.

Songs in this section  
[Amazing Grace by John Newton](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AtteRD5bBNQ)


	3. Chapter 3

Summer stretched on, and it was like no other he'd ever had before. This summer was a summer full of changes, the world shifted so casually, so slowly it was almost without his notice and gradually, his feeling towards Lana and Whitney both changed. As he and Whitney became better and better friends, he found himself putting Lana in that box labeled 'sister.' Lana was beautiful and special and always would be. He loved her, just not like he did as a child. He gave her little trinkets, brought her things he thought she'd enjoy, like a four leaf clover he found on the way to school, or a shard of robin's egg because he knew she liked that shade of blue, or a little bouquet of wildflowers. He did this because it made her smile, just like he did it to make Hannah smile, or make his mom smile.

Lana transformed into someone he loved like family, and Whit became more and more mysterious. Being near Whit could be a terrible aggravation sometimes, like an itch under the skin he couldn't reach. Sometimes, he'd leave after a few hours with Lana and Whit, and be angry, or sad, or—or—some way he didn’t understand. Often, Whit made him angry; he could be so sarcastic, thoughtless. And sure, sometimes he thought what Whit needed was one good solid punch in the snoot, and then he'd feel rotten for feeling that way. They got mad at each other a lot. But they laughed a lot too, and Clark found no one made him laugh quite so much as Whit, or pleased him quite so much with a compliment, or a pat on the back…he'd do anything to get Whit to say, 'Hey, hell of a good job, Kent. Good sport, Kent.'

It became a magical summer, the best he'd ever had.

@@@

"Clark, I need your help. Lana's been looking forward to going to the Founder's Day dance, you know? Well, I've got to go to Granville with my dad…can you do me a solid and take her? "

The Founders Day dance was the event that'd become the unofficial end of summer, it was the last fun thing to do before school started. "I don’t want her to miss out; she's really excited about it. Bought a dress and she's getting her hair done and stuff," he said, his forehead wrinkled as if the idea of being that excited about a dance was just madness.

Clark grinned at him, shook his head. How was it Lana and Whit managed to be such a great couple? Whit obviously did not understand women. Of course, he might have an unfair advantage over Whit when it came to women —"Sure, I don’t mind." How big a deal could it be? Just a nice evening with one of his best friends.

He and Whit were sitting on a thick tree branch that grew low over the river that outlined Smallville's boundary. It was quiet; no one else was out swimming that afternoon and Clark could clearly hear water foaming around rocks and plants in the river. He liked the sound, it was soothing. He felt so relaxed, so…happy. It was nice to sit here quietly with his friend just enjoying the day, doing nothing special. He was so grateful to have this that he'd do anything Whit wanted and this was such a little thing he wanted.

Whit squeezed his shoulder. "Thanks, Kent. She'd really have her nose out of joint if she couldn’t wear her new dress, boy." He shuddered dramatically, hip and ribs rubbing up against Clark and they laughed.

"Gosh, Whit, she's as big as a minute. I don’t think a big football hero like you needs to be afraid."

"Hunh. Wait until you see her mad. Size don't count for nothin' then." He shook his head, and stood, carefully toed along the branch back to the river bank. He crouched over his pants and shirt, rummaging in his pockets, and the sun shining on him made his water soaked union suit translucent. Little white snaps marched down the center of his chest and lower, and Clark counted and recounted them.

"Um…have you told her yet I'm pinch-hitting?" His throat felt a little dry, he felt nervous and he guessed it was just the thought of explaining to Lana why it was _him_ at the door and not her boyfriend.

"You're safe Kent. She likes you." Clark smiled and looked down…when he looked up again, Whit was smiling at him. He held out the cigarette he'd been searching his pockets for. "Drag?"

Clark blushed, and nodded, and Whit just chuckled. "You'll do fine, buddy."

He scrubbed himself from head to toe, and brushed his hair until it shone—he was not going to embarrass Lana by looking like a chump if he could help it. He held the flower he'd bought for her under Whit's direction and practiced what he'd say in the mirror, and adjusted his tie and shirt collar a million times. He frowned over the fuzzy edges of his cuff and bit his lip. He should have thought about it before, he could have asked his mom to fix the cuffs. Oh well... at least his tie was new, colorful and bright. Again he frowned. Not too bright, he hoped. This whole dance thing was driving him batty. Somehow, Lana had gone from being his sister to an echo of that mystery girl he'd fallen in love with long ago. There was just too much stuff going on—his mom was beside herself, she was so happy Clark was on a date, a little too happy as far as Clark was concerned. And all day, Hannah'd been looking at him strangely. He wanted to ask her why, but he kept missing her and now it was time to go….

He got the truck key from dad, who handed it over as solemnly as if he was conducting some ancient coming of age ritual. Clark tried to keep his face as serious as dad's was, but a big goofy grin kept breaking through, and he snatched the key, "Thanks dad—see ya at ten!" and ran.

@@@

In no time he was pulling up in the Potter driveway, heart tripping a little fast. He ran up the porch steps and knocked on the door. When Miss Potter opened the door, her expression was a little sour, and Clark smiled shyly and hoped he looked like a friend and not a potential rival for rich Whitney Fordman, Nell's beau of choice for Lana. It turned out all right, she might not have been full of warmth and hail fellow well met, but at least she didn't slam the door in his face.

Lana swept up behind her aunt and Clark couldn't stop the admiring 'wow!' that fell out of his mouth—she looked beautiful, in a robin's egg blue dress, with little pearl buttons all down the front and little short sleeves with a slit in them, just like the girls in the movie. She smiled at him, and he was pretty sure he passed muster.

@@@

The hall was beautiful, full of colored lights and balloons and sunflowers everywhere. All the doors were open in hopes of coaxing a cooling breeze through. A lot of the girls were slowly losing their curls, their dresses weren't as crisp anymore, but not Lana—she looked as perfect as when they first stepped in the hall. They danced and danced, and she was so light, like dandelion fluff in his hand. He sang snatches of the songs, and she blushed and smiled when he sang and looked at her. It was fun. She talked to him, about school, and what she hoped for in the future, and her growing feeling that Whit was not thinking the same things she was, not expecting the same things and maybe he didn’t love her at all. Clark held her and danced her about the floor, and told her she was being silly, of course Whit loved her. The band took break, and they stopped dancing. Lana let Clark get her a glass of punch, and they walked back together to his dad's truck. He swallowed, a little nervous about doing that, but no one saw, and besides, it was Lana. She was like a sister to him.

They sat in the spotlessly clean truck, sipping punch, and Clark snickered while Lana filled him in on all the juicy gossip at school. They chatted a while and eventually the conversation turned back to Whit, and he told Lana that she was worrying needlessly. Whit was everything a guy should be, faithful and good and kind, "He's such a solid guy, Lana—why, he's friends with me, isn't he?"

Lana scolded him. "Don’t run yourself down, Clark. You’re a lovely person, a very nice boy." She smiled and cupped his cheek. "I know you've liked me for a very long time, Clark. I know you used to follow me home from school." She frowned just a tiny bit. "What happened? Why don't you like me anymore?"

"I do, I like you very much. You're the most important girl in my life," he smiled and was about to tell her he understood that there was no way they could be more than friends and he was happy about that when she crossed that few inches between them and kissed him. Kissed him!

Soft, soft lips pressed against his, dry and warm. He was so surprised he gasped and Lana pressed forward. There was warmth, wet, she was scraping his mouth—a tiny bit—with her teeth and they tingled and heated and then, she was in his lap and he had no idea how. He felt a startling sensation growing below his belt, like his underwear was bunched and tight, his breath came harder, and he sucked in. Her tongue flicked against his teeth and he moaned, quietly as he could. He was kissing her, his tongue was touching hers, he was kissing the girl that Whit kissed, Whit's tongue had been right there, wet and warm—Clark's eyes flew open and he jerked back—"No! Oh! We—we can't do this!"

Lana's hands flew up to cover her mouth and she blushed so deep a red Clark was frightened—she looked horrified. "Are you—will you tell? Please don’t tell Clark, please!"

"But, but, this is wrong—oh gosh, this is so wrong." Clark felt crushed with guilt and Lana looked like she was going to cry.

"If you care for me at all, you'll let me tell Whit first, don’t you think it should be me?"

Clark nodded. "I guess. If you think it's best," he said. "Oh gosh, I'm so sorry, Lana. I really am." He must have said something, done something tonight that made this happen. It certainly wasn't Lana's fault.

They were silent on their way back to the truck and at Lana's house, he tried to apologize several times, but she wouldn't let him talk, and he drove back home in a blue funk.

@@@

Clark ran through that afternoon's rehearsal in his mind, juggling his books and his sweater as he pushed through the exit doors, humming the song he was supposed to sing, trying to think of parts he hadn't hit like he should. The other cast members said he was good, but he wasn't entirely sure about that.

He dropped his books on the steps outside the doors, and yanked his sweater over his head. He had to be more than good, he had to be perfect—for the first time, he'd been allowed to participate in something outside of church or home. He guessed maybe since Dad was seeing that he could be close friends with someone and the world not end, he figured it was okay to finally loosen the apron strings—or whatever dads loosened.

He strolled out to the road in front of the school, ready for the walk home. Another nice thing about staying after school was that there were fewer people around to stare at him and wonder just what had happened at the Founder's Day dance—the dance was more than a few days past, and he hadn't seen Lana or Whitney. He'd heard plenty—whispering and speculative looks, and outright snubs, but so far, he hadn't seen the other players in this little drama. Not that he was trying to avoid them, it was just…he really was busy. It was amazing how much needed to be done, at school, at home—especially when you looked for it.

"Clark."

Clark whipped around and gulped. Whitney. All his excitement dropped away under a ton of guilt. "Hi."

"So, what play is it this year?" He took the playbook Clark handed him and tried to look interested. "Oh. Good News, hunh?"

Clark nodded. "It was on Broadway." He swallowed hard. He'd used up his store of safe conversation. His heart sank. Whit was going to talk about _it_ ….

Whit handed the book back and sighed. "Lana told me what happened." Whit looked sad, which confused Clark, because he really expected to be dodging fists when Whit said that.

"Whit, Whit, I swear to God, I'm sorry." He winced inside. Apologizing was like closing the barn after the cows wandered, kind of pointless, and not helpful…there was no way he could make it up to Whit.

"We broke up. Or something like it. I'm not sure…"

Clark groaned…the weight of guilt turned into an elephant sitting on his chest. Whit started walking, and Clark didn’t know what else to do but follow him. "You—you think you broke up?"

Whitney nodded, and Clark followed him silently to his truck. Whit stopped and jerked his head toward the truck. "Get in."

Clark stopped. "No—I don’t think—"

"Get. In." Whit looked furious, his eyes were blazing. Clark rubbed his face but just nodded, and climbed in. If Whit was going to take him somewhere else to pound him, Clark guessed he had a right. He settled back against the seat. This was surely the last time he'd be riding in Whit's fine truck, and that really shouldn't make him sad.

Whit started the truck and drove, not saying anything, not looking Clark's way. Clark clutched his books and his playbook and watched him out of the corner of his eye. He tried again, "Listen Whit, I'm really, really sorry."

"Kent, don't apologize. You should have come to me first though. Lana says you're trying to hide behind her."

"But she…" Clark was shocked, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak against Lana. She surely had a reason to imply things happened differently than they had.

Whit shrugged, and frowned a little. "Don't worry. Her version…don’t add up to beans. Maybe we were through before this. You know, she wanted a lot of stuff I didn't—I mean, not yet. I'm going to college, she's going to college. We can't get married now. And we shouldn't tie each other down."

Clark sat like a stone; he had no idea what to say. _I broke them up._ It kept rattling through his mind, _I broke them up…_ the last thing in the world he wanted to do. He was a rat, a skunk…

"It's just, she thinks she knows what she wants too, but mostly it's what her aunt wants for her." Whit shook his head. "Lana's too big for this crummy little town. I mean, what's Smallville known for? Killer rocks from the sky? Freaks hiding all over the countryside, everyone afraid to talk about it…we all need to get out of Smallville, pal."

"I don't think…I'll have the farm, someday it'll be mine. Just like I thought…you and your dad's store. That you'd be there."

Whit slowed and glanced at Clark, the tiny beginning of a smile on his lips. "Kent. Clark, did you think I was staying in this burg? What, you saw me and you together in Smallville, best friends, maybe raising our kids together, good old family cookouts?" He grinned, laughed.

Clark blushed and felt like a fool. "No, not really."

Whit's smile died. "Yeah, I thought about it. Staying here. Getting married. Sometimes, I think I can do it—if you stay here too."

Clark's stomach fluttered, he shook his head. "I'm not going anywhere, Whit."

Whit shrugged. They drove on in silence, until they were pulling up on the Kent driveway. "Clark." He reached out and slid his hand around Clark's wrist. "I forgive you, okay? I mean it."

The truck was suddenly tiny and stuffy and full of their smell…he pulled his hand away, rougher than he'd meant. "Okay, all right, I'll talk to you later." He felt hot and tight all over his skin, his eyes hurt like he'd rubbed burning sand into them. "Thank you. Good night, Whit."

He ran into the house, straight to the bath room and locked himself in. He couldn't move—he lay back against the closed door and panted in relief—felt like he'd just managed to escape something huge, overpowering.

Dinner that evening was quiet, and his family kept looking at him oddly. He didn't blame them. He could imagine he must look…strange. He excused himself as soon as was polite, and raced out to his room. The familiar scent of hay and old wood, the thick quiet and slight chill was so welcome after the confusing day he'd had. He pulled a chair over to the loft doors and sat, his feet propped up on the ledge. The fields were beginning to deepen from pale green to emerald…a couple of weeks on and they'd be ready to cut hay…Clark inhaled deeply, and let the breath out slowly, thinking…this farm life, it was something he understood. Whit probably thought he loved it, maybe his dad did too. Farm life didn’t have anything to do with loving it, or hating it—it just was. It was what he knew, what he was comfortable with. There was nothing wrong with staying in place because it was comfortable, was there?

Birds flitted over the fields, catching insects active with the coming evening. The light was that color the skies got trembling on the edge of darkness…

What did it mean that the touch of Whitney's hand made him feel more _there,_ more aware of himself than the kiss with Lana? What was happening to him? Whit was destroying his comfort, he was _letting_ Whit destroy his comfortable place…  
Whit, always pulling those stupid stunts and then grinning at him, knowing Clark couldn't stay mad…damn it. He knew what Whit did was wrong. Clark sighed and wiped his eyes. Complicated, his life had become so complicated.

There came a little dry cough behind him. "Come on up, Hannah. I know you're there."

"Clark. What's bothering you, big brother? And don’t try to deny it; you're really not very good at hiding it. It's Whit and Lana, right?"

"Hey, it's none of your business and you're too young for talk like this anyway. You should be…be…making potholders, or something."

"Our troop's making wallets this week, besides, I'm not blind. I _see_ what's going on."

Clark's stomach froze. He turned to her and asked, "What is going on? I mean, what do _you_ mean?"

She came and sat next to him. "It's obvious. Just like the movies. You're torn between being a good friend, and being in love with your friend's girl. It's hard. And I'm betting something happened on your date. You kissed her?"

"No, she kissed me." Clark blew out the breath it felt like he'd been holding since talking to Whit. "She kissed me and lied about it to Whit. Well, fudged the truth a bit."

"Clark…it's pretty hard to believe that Lana would cheat on Whit." She looked disbelieving.

"See, Hannah? If you don’t believe me, no one else will. I didn’t kiss her; I don’t even want to kiss her. I like her, lots, but she's just like a sister to me now, like she is to you." He smiled softly and sighed. "I don’t know. I'm just changing I guess. Maybe growing up."

"Maybe…listen, Clark. Please be careful of Whit. He does like you, he admires you, but…he's used to people liking him for what he can do. He might not believe that you're his friend just because you like him. I'm not sure he knows how to be a friend."

Clark listened to Hannah, and it made sense in a way. But …"Whit wouldn't do anything to hurt me. He cares. He's different than most guys, sure, but most of us are farmer's kids. Whit's been all over the country, he's rich, he knows things." He said again, "He wouldn't hurt me. And I talked to him about Lana—he's been thinking about breaking up with her."

 

"Clark. Clark, you _must_ watch out. I don’t know. Maybe, maybe you're good for him. Maybe he'll grow up a little too." She looked doubtful, but before Clark could continue his argument, she winced and rubbed her eyes. "Gosh, feels like the top of my head wants to come off. I guess it's past my bedtime."

Clark kissed the top of her head and hugged her. "Okay kid, go take a powder—and take a powder. Get it? Headache powder?" He grinned at his own joke, and she snorted.

"Guess the Marx Brothers are missing one, funny guy...."

After she left, Clark climbed into pajamas and rolled into bed, and thought about what Hannah said. Some of it made sense. "She's too damn smart for her age," he sighed. He turned out the light, and lay on his bed, and the incident in the truck rose up in his mind like a movie. He saw Whit's eyes blazing in the dark, blue, so blue, and his mouth—the heat of his fingers on his wrist. He felt the soft insistent press of Lana's lips against his, her tongue, kitten swift in his mouth, and then it was Whit, and it was Lana and it was…he was panting, and almost afraid. This…his cock was stiff and lifting up, and this had never happened to him before, but he knew—it was what boys joked about when no girls were around.

He pressed against the bulge lifting his pajama bottom and shivered. It felt good to touch. He pulled down the blankets, his bottoms and looked. His…his cock…thinking the word made him shiver, touching his cock made him groan. He was startled when wet welled up in the slit at the head, dribbled over his fingers. When he made a fist around it and pulled down the shaft, more leaked out. What little he'd heard from guys talking he knew being hard was normal. He hoped the clear fluid leaking all over was normal too. He jerked on his hard length and groaned, bucked up without wanting to—it was dizzying, he felt guilty, he felt _good_. He did it again, and the deep rose head of his cock was slick with wet and he felt something rise up inside him, like his insides were tightening, and something was going to break—he tried to stop the feeling but it was so big, so had to happen— in his mind Whit touched his hand again and said, "I forgive you," and the horrible tension snapped. His hips lifted from the bed, and he shook and cried out. Fire raced out of him, hot thick fluid dropped on his stomach, he was thrusting through his slick fist…he was gasping for breath, flat on the bed and stunned. That was, was…pretty good. Not so bad. He didn’t feel sick, or evil, he just felt tired and…pretty good. A tiny voice said _see, that's good, sex—what it's all about, you're not so different…._

@@@

Whit asked Clark to drive out past town with him because he had something he wanted to talk to him about.

Clark agreed immediately, still feeling a lot of guilt over Lana, but on the other hand, pleased to be spending time with Whit, finally.

They parked near Chandler Field, in a part of the field farthest from the road, and Clark waited patiently for Whit to talk. He sat on the tailgate and smoked for a long time, and then began asking Clark strange questions, and Clark started to feel uncomfortable.

"So, what girls do you like?"

"What? I...I don't know, I just—"

"You just liked my girlfriend? What about Ally? She's pretty built, or Brenda—she's fast, I hear. Like her?"

"I—I guess. No."

He looked at Clark, stared at him for a long minute and inhaled. "Do you jerk off?" he asked.

Clark flinched, and had a brief flash of doing just that and picturing—confusing things. "That's personal."

"Hey, don't get in a sweat, guys ask that, that's all."

"Maybe." Clark wondered if he could just get Whit punch him one and take him home.

"Sure, they talk about girls and stuff, they look at dirty books—you ever seen one?"

Clark shook his head slowly—no, never.

"I got some, you wanna see?" Whit asked, and pulled a bag out from under the seat. "And I got something to drink." He held up a flask and took a deep pull from it, his face was red, and he smiled. "You try."

Clark shook his head again. "No, no, my dad would kill me, really."

"You’re such a goody two shoes, you never do anything wrong. Oh wait—you messed around with my girl behind my back."

Clark looked down and red filled his face. "You said…you said you understood…" _just hit me and get it over with, please—_

"I did say that, didn't I?" He pulled out a little stack of comics. "Look at these." Clark took one and gasped a little. Cartoon men and women were having cartoon sex. His face flared impossibly hotter.

"Whit—"

Whit sucked at the neck of the flask again, "Jesus, Kent, you aren’t going to tell me to behave, are you? Shit." He laughed and flipped through the comic and his cheekbones turned red, "Look, this one's pretty good." 

Clark looked, and slowly moved just a little closer to see what it was fascinated Whit so. The drawing in this comic was a little better, and he could recognize it was supposed to be a popular cartoon character from the papers—a farmer, black-haired, barefoot and in overalls. He was on his knees; doing things to a girl with his tongue, and his …his…penis. Clark swallowed. His throat felt tight, and his mouth felt hot. Whit said, "This one is my favorite, I like looking at it a lot."

Whit shifted, touched himself, a quick flitting brush of knuckles over the bulge in his pants and Clark instantly felt breathless, so hot it made him want to claw out of his clothes. Whit moved closer, and his elbow moved against Clark, torturing him. He whispered, "Look at it," and his breath was warm, and smelled a little like burnt sugar and licorice—Clark shivered, and Whit kept talking so quietly, and maybe, Clark thought, fearfully. "You know why it's my favorite…it's because…the guy reminds me of you. Look at that, look how he's touching her, licking her…I look at this and imagine you’re doing this…to me."

Clark felt a thrill of shocked horror spread through him, at the same time a wave of heat exploded in his groin and traveled straight up his body to crash out of his mouth. His eyes flew wide and then slammed shut and a heavy pulse shook him down there, even stronger than when he touched himself. He opened an eye and looked down. His cock was stiff, pressed painfully against his inseam and his hands flew to cover his embarrassment…Whit said, "Holy shit—" and his warm breath, his changed voice, sent shivers from Clark's ear to his cock. The touch of his hand changed from shielding to caressing, and then—things went horribly worse.

Whit turned his head and sighed and Clark turned his and they were lip to lip. Whit groaned, laughed—made some sort of noise—grabbed Clark by the hair and kissed him hard and buried his hand in Clark's lap, Clark surged to his feet and Whit followed. They staggered back on the truck bed; Whit grabbed Clark's hips and pulled him close. Ground against him and for one amazing moment Clark saw stars, stars were falling all around him like warm rain, and the next, he was lying on his back in the dirt and Whit was cursing him.

Clark felt horror, confusion, and the cross burning a hole in his chest. He reached down to touch it, trying to understand what had just happened. "Wha—"

One of Whit's teammates was standing over him. "You disgusting fairy—we saw what you were doing." Another guy called out, "Are you okay Whit?"

"Hell yeah, I punched his lights into next week." His expression was savage, but his eyes were pleading. In the harsh silence, Whit's mouth moved. Please.

Clark couldn't do it—he knew Whit deserved nothing from him, but he couldn’t do it, not when Whit was pleading with his very soul. Clark took a breath, knew he was a making a bad choice. "I—I'm sorry Whit, I'm sorry."

They left him lying in the field. Clark got up to walk the miles back home, alone and terrified…afraid of what would happen now, wondering how he could explain that he hadn't been the one who wanted it…he stopped and took a deep shaky breath. Right. Whitney, golden boy, big man around the school, rich boy, against him—the freak. Any friends he had were Whit's, any notice he got was because of Whit…how could he betray him like that? Whit was supposed to be his _friend._

All the way home, scene after scene, all the times Whit had done something odd but Clark had ignored it because he was such a good friend, played out in his mind.

@@@

Later that night, in his bed, Clark admitted that he hadn’t ignored those moments so much as saved them up, stored in his mind to take out and look at and wonder over. What did it mean? Whitney had a beautiful girlfriend, a charmed life—why would he do something like that? It made Whit as much of a freak as he was. Clark felt tears sting under his closed eyelids. Freak…and if he liked to think that Whit wanted to touch him—not like tonight, like Lana had…then it doubled his own freakishness. This was even worse, he knew it. He knew what Smallville, the church, kids at school had to say about it. He heard locker room jokes, and the words boys used…he knew that Whit couldn't afford to have people think that about him. Clark knew that somehow, some way, he was going to pay for what Whit did.

@@@

It was a quiet afternoon; sun bright, a little warm—an Indian summer day. He'd finally begun to feel a little relaxed after days and days of waiting for the other shoe to drop. Nothing horrible had happened. Nothing too horrible, anyway. His life was back to what it had been; once again he was just an overly tall, overly clumsy outcast. No one spoke to him, and he counted himself lucky considering. He was the recipient of dozens of hard looks, and sure there were whispers and the locker room was a living hell, but bruises healed fast, he never had to explain to his folks what was going on….

He was walking past the Talon, taking his time about going to the library, the sun felt good, and helped him to cheer up a bit. He was just beginning to whistle a little when he heard a voice that made the hair on the back of his neck stand straight up—

"You take that back, or I'll pound you good!" His sister was yelling—screaming in anger, and suddenly, she made a noise he'd never heard from her before—real pain—

He ran towards the sound, and found her in a ring of other kids, taunting and pushing her, she careened from hand to hand, a punch, a push, a slap sent her to the next.

"My brother said your brother's a queer—you're a queer too, aint'cha? Queer!" The circle took up the chant, and Hannah was screaming, and trying to get back at them—

Clark broke through the ring and scooped her up. "Run," he growled, not caring that they were children, not caring that he might have hurt them running to get to Hannah. Children being the perceptive creatures that they could be, ran for their lives. He held Hannah in his arms and carried her home, and had to listen to his sister cry all the way.

Clark let her walk only when they were in sight of home and after she insisted that there was nothing wrong with her feet and he should put her down. Holding her hand as they walked up the driveway, they were silent all the way to the house, and all through dinner. Clark didn't miss the worried looks his mom and dad gave each other…it was a very quiet meal. The click of silverware against crockery sounded so loud. Clark swore he could hear himself chewing mashed potatoes.

After dinner, Clark sat on the porch and Hannah came out to sit with him. She started talking, and Clark let her speak at her own pace. "Today wasn't the first time that happened, but it wasn't as bad before." It had been happening to her nearly every day since Whit turned on him—his sister was fighting his battle, and he never realized.

"They started saying things about you, and I beat up Alvin but he wouldn't stop, and the other kids started, and everywhere I go…" She cried and rubbed her head. "And I have this bad, bad feeling that something horrible is going to happen to you, and you should take off the cross, Clark, you should take it off."

"I can't! It's the only thing that makes me normal, and especially now, I have to be, don’t you see?" Clark's eyes stung, and he sniffed hard. Hannah's pain was hard to bear.

"It's not true, is it? You're not a queer, are you?"

"Hannah…you don’t even know what it means. Those kids don’t know."

She wiped her nose and leaned against Clark. "Do too. It means you like boys. You don’t, right? You like Lana. Why would they lie like that?"

Clark didn’t say anything. He sat silently, his sister on his lap, her head warm against his chest and her swinging legs rocking them both a little. "I love you, Hannah."

She stopped swinging, and turned a little to look at him, her forehead wrinkled. She looked at him for a long, long minute. "Clark…" she winced and sighed. Closed her eyes and leaned against him again. He barely heard her tiny whisper, "You are _not_ a freak."

@@@

"You're not a freak." He whispered it to himself whenever he felt most lost. Whenever Whit passed him in the hall with barely a look. Whenever Lana stared at him, looking confused, and sad. Whenever he got shoved against a locker, his books knocked out of his hand, when he was ignored by his teachers, he told himself, "You're not a freak." When his mom asked him what was wrong, or his dad tried to get him to talk, he'd think it, and assure them that no, everything was fine.

Two weeks before Halloween, Whitney finally spoke to Clark. He stopped him in the hall, without even looking to see if anyone was around to see. "Clark, please meet me after school? Before you say no, I want to tell you…" his voice dropped to a barely audible whisper, "I'm sorry."

Clark wanted to believe that Whit felt bad for what he'd done, and he seemed to be telling the truth, and it felt good to have Whit's attention again. Whit nodded as if Clark had spoken. "Out by the drugstore, okay? Maybe…maybe we can go to Granville, so we can talk without…you know."

"Granville? Oh. Okay…" He watched Whit walk away, conflicting emotions locking him in place. He wanted to hurt Whit like he hurt him. But he also wanted to talk to Whit, try to understand what he did. And…he hoped maybe Whit might explain how it changed like it had.

@@@

Whitney was waiting in the street behind the drugstore, just like he said. Clark climbed into the truck, and Whit looked—sad, nervous, guilty.

"What do you want, Whit? I doubt there's anything we have to say to each other that needs us going to Granville."

"We can get some lunch without being bothered. Talk about what happened. If you want to. Ignore it if you don't. I had to…I had to save myself, Clark. You're stronger than I am. Look how you're handling this. I couldn't be as brave as you are."

"I don’t want to be this brave, Whitney. It wasn't my choice. It wasn't even my fault—it was you. You're the queer," he spat, suddenly so furious his hands were shaking.

The look Whit gave him was devastated, hugely hurt, and angry. He grabbed Clark's collar and pulled. "You can’t say that. You can’t ever say that, Clark." The truck swerved as Whitney yanked Clark closer and Clark tried to pull away.

"Whit…stop! Pull over. Pull over before you hurt us."

Whit stepped on the gas instead, and sent the truck racing into the cornfields. "I don't want to do this, I have to do this. I have to prove I don't…I don’t…" He stopped and Clark thought of taking off the necklace and running—and then he heard a dozen voices, and the door flew open, and he was being dragged out into the dying sunlight.

They ripped at his clothes, until he was standing in only his underpants, shivering in reaction—fear, horror, betrayal of a sort he never expected. The gang of excited boys pushed him against a post and crossbar, left over from some past season's scarecrow, and one of the boys tore the necklace off, ripping a track of fire against the back of Clark's neck.

"Someone like you shouldn't be wearing this," he hissed and drew back his arm to throw it. Clark couldn’t keep his eyes off the silver strand and the boy smiled crookedly.

"That worried about it, faggot? Then keep it," and he pushed it in Clark's mouth, thick fingers bitter against his tongue. The cross was pushed to the back of his mouth and Clark struggled not to swallow it—tried not to scream—it hurt. The chip of green rock burnt like a live coal on his tongue. The pain grew larger and larger. It seared the tender tissue inside his mouth, the roof of his mouth. He gagged and a thin trickle of blood ran down over his lips, and Whit looked horrified—frightened. He stood back as the rest of the boys tied Clark's wrists to the crossbar of the thing, tied his ankles to the center post.

Someone waved a can of paint and a brush under his nose. "You know what they call it in the Bible—sodomite." The paint-filled brush slopped against his chest, sketching an 'S.' "So everyone knows what you are."

Clark couldn't stop the tears the pain made, he tried to beg, to plead with them not to do it. He searched out Whit in the group. Please. Remember what I did for you…please.

When they began throwing dirt at Clark, Whit picked up a handful and threw it too.

Clark closed his eyes and dropped his head. All he could do now was concentrate, concentrate on not choking, on ignoring the stinging clods of dirt that hit him, in his face, his arms, legs, and fell into his underclothing…he was alone with wolves, and no one knew where he was. No one was coming to help him because the only friend he thought he had, had brought him to this.

They cursed him and laughed, and taunted him some more, and then Clark heard the trucks leaving. He was shaking from cold, and pain—fire raced across his shoulders and grew bigger and bigger. Inside his chest felt thick, the air he tried to breathe in felt soupy. His mouth was on fire.

 _I'm going to die. I can’t do this—_ He knew the boys hadn't planned on his death, but it was going to happen and he felt sad and guilty for leaving his family like this and frightened of what death was like and, finally, a little spark of self-preservation kindled. He gagged around the burning weight of the cross on his tongue—he could save himself if he didn't have the cross. A little voice whispered, how stupid can you be? How much do you have to suffer—spit it out, idiot, spit it out….

There was a moment when he thought he was going to swallow the thing, and the fear it caused approached a sort of glory. He imagined it burning all the way down his throat, a white hot sun going into his gut, exploding—but finally, finally, it fell out of his mouth and dropped away into the dirt, and then, so quickly it frightened him again, the pain was gone. The pain ripping his shoulders in two was gone, the nausea was gone, and the blood running down the back of his throat seemed to vanish. He wasn't hanging from the posts anymore. In fact, he barely felt the wood or the ropes. What he felt was strong—strong enough to pull his arms forward and crack the wooden beam in two, and rip the rope as if it were thread. He dropped to the ground, and shrugged out of the splintered hemp and timber. He staggered, stepped on the necklace and shuddered as he dropped to the ground. Reluctantly, so very reluctantly, he picked it up, rode out the waves of pain, took deep breaths until his body remembered what it was to be shackled. With the necklace in place again, he searched through the weeds and found his clothes, but his shoes were lost out in the corn somewhere. After looking a while, he gave up hope of finding them and headed for home, tears flowing, knowing that Mom was going to be so angry with him for losing those shoes….

He walked the long, cold miles back to the farm in silence, blank inside. He'd go home and continue and, after a while, it'd be like nothing happened, and he could just—go on.

@@@

He couldn't. He tried, but he couldn't. Life was too different. He was different. There was ice inside him that wouldn't melt. His sister suffered because of him, the change in him worried his parents, and that made him feel guilty and the guilt made him angry and the anger made him feel guilt and….

He'd thought he wanted to be like them—the Normals. He thought being them would make life easy, and that being normal would mean not feeling the dull grind in his bones every day, the constant lick of nausea, just—so _freakish _all the time. The football team and their little prank took all the desire to be normal away, took away his belief that it was possible, took church away, school away, love…music….__

__

__He could be more. Without the necklace, he could be better than them. They'd never hurt him in any way again, without the necklace. He had dreams where he lost it, or took if off himself—dreams filled with darkness and smoke and red—red like sundown, red like fires, like blood._ _

__Whitney was the last straw. That one thing that makes all other things seem like little jokes. He stopped Clark in the hallway one day, a day after the play "Good News" was presented in the student auditorium/lunchroom/gym, without Clark Kent's participation._ _

__"I—I'm sorry."_ _

__Clark looked at him—he could feel how wide his eyes were, how wide he was smiling at Whitney. This was the big joke—the funniest joke yet. Whitney was staring back at him, and slowly beginning to look…angry. And maybe, a little scared. "Whitney…Whitney…I think…you should go to hell."_ _

__"I deserve that—"_ _

__"I have to go." Clark turned and walked away. He hated that he had to walk away from Whitney because he wanted so much to stay, to hear what Whitney had to say…he was so damn weak._ _

__He told his parents. In a moment of weakness, he told them all about being hung on the cross—but just that. His mom and dad had been horrified, and devastated. They wanted to know why it happened, this thing, why they'd chosen him. Why Whit would even let the football team treat him like that. Clark had lied and said he didn’t know, and Hannah didn't disagree. Dad had been especially upset and blamed himself._ _

__"If you hadn't been standing out, Clark, it wouldn't have happened. That's what happens when they notice you. I'm sorry, son. I should have been stronger but…you were so. So happy." He looked lost. Clark had never seen his dad look less than confident. Clark watched his dad twist the bandana in his hand and wished…._ _

__When he was little, his dad knew everything. He was the smartest, bravest, best fixer of everything in the world…why couldn't it be like that still? Why couldn't his dad still fix it? His mom wiped her eyes, forgetting about the flour on her hands, and getting it on her forehead, in her hair…she went back to her bread, kneading it savagely. "It will pass, Clark. People will forget about what happened, and everything will be back to normal."_ _

___Sure, Mom. It's going to go right back to the way it was. It'll be swell, aces, like a Busby Berkley movie and…and…._ "I know, Mom."_ _

__She turned to him and smiled—the effect was ruined just a bit by the way her lip shook. "Our life will be the same as it was, and you'll find new friends. I'm sorry Whit wasn't who he seemed to be."_ _

__Hannah made the barest sound. "I'm going to listen to the radio, if I may." She slid from her chair and looked at her feet. "It's…it's going to get better, Clark. I can feel it." Her hair curtained her face, but Clark knew she was crying._ _

__"I believe that, Hannah. I know it." She shook her head and went into the parlor. After a minute or two, they could hear the opening theme of Doc Savage._ _

__Dad listened, a puzzled look on his face. "Doc Savage? What happened to Little Orphan Annie?"_ _

__Clark muttered, "That was last year, Dad." Dad shook his head and pulled his barn jacket on._ _

__"You coming, Clark?"_ _

__"Yes, sir." They were going to feed the cows, and lock up the henhouse, close the gates on the far field—do things in a few hours Clark knew he could do in minutes, if not for…he touched the necklace behind his undershirt and sweater…. Before he walked out the door, his mom asked him to wait._ _

__"Clark…does this…thing that happened have anything to do with Lana?" She winced a little and smiled sadly._ _

__"No Mom. I can tell you, it has nothing at all to do with her." He smiled back and walked out to follow his dad._ _

____

@@@

Hannah woke up terribly miserable, lost and crying. Her head hurt just awful, and she wanted so badly to run to Clark's Fortress of Solitude and ask for hugs and songs, but she just rolled over and held her cat. There was no point in going, anyway. She didn't have to see it, she knew…. Clark wasn't there anymore.

@@@


	4. Chapter 4

Clark slipped down the steps and walked across the yard with the moon lighting the way. He heard the normal barnyard noises, heard Monkey's curious wuffle, not quite a bark. He smiled. Apparently Monkey was too tired to find out what Clark was doing up at that hour…. He walked into the kitchen and laid the cross on the table, on top of the note he'd written for his folks along with another for Hannah. He grabbed his pack and left the kitchen—headed for the road. He stopped and breathed deeply, looked up at his sister's window, wondered if she was awake. He shook his head, and wiped his eyes. If he was going to leave, now was the time. He trotted down the drive and, this time, Monkey did bark out loud. He ran a little faster, and Monkey came out from the barn barking, running towards him. "Sorry, boy," and he took off. He ran—ran! It was the fastest he'd ever run before—he'd never run so far without the necklace on, that he could remember. It was—frightening. He had to stop every few miles and catch his breath. His heart pounded so hard and his mouth was so dry…. After a while, he started paying attention to what happened when he ran. It was beautiful, in a way. It was a whole new world—a frozen slice of world, that belonged to him alone. He began to enjoy it.

@@@

Clark walked along the edge of the trestle bridge, swallowing hard. He didn’t much like being that high up with what felt like nothing between himself and the sky but a skinny wooden railing, but it was the direct route into Metropolis, and he figured it was best to keep to the trail he knew than try and find his own way. Besides, if he ignored the yawning pit under him, it was sort of nice. Pretty. The sky was a bright, cloudless blue and it was quiet but for birds—he could pick out the different calls, and a warm, Indian summer breeze brought the smell of wild flowers and the river. He sighed.

The scent of flowers reminded him of his mom but he wasn't going to think about it, wonder if she knew, was worried.... He'd put a few hours between himself and Smallville and, at the speed he'd run, he'd gone quite a long distance. He still wasn't hungry, or thirsty, or cold. The lack of his necklace really made a difference—just how much a difference he was learning, bit by bit. He'd enjoyed running, using his muscles, testing himself in that way, it felt good, but that was something he'd known about himself. He knew that sometimes he could hear—for long, long distances. He knew without the cross, he was stronger than normal. He'd been told tales of when he was a little kid, and the damage he'd done unknowingly. Most of what happened, his parents told him like they were telling a favorite family joke, but Clark knew…one time...one time, he'd hurt his mom seriously, broken her arm. Clark's eyes flooded briefly with tears. He was pretty sure his mom and dad thought he didn’t remember that.

A dragonfly buzzed around his head, dipping and swerving in front of him before taking off for the river's edge again. Clark's school bag banged against his hip—it was the only thing he'd had to use for luggage. His old sleeping bag was tied to it and he felt like a too-old version of Huck Finn, instead of a man starting out on his new life… because of course, he hadn't run away like a little boy….

He sighed loudly and adjusted the bag to lie less awkwardly. There was nothing much in it, a few changes of clothes, clean underwear…toothpowder and his brush…and a notebook, for writing letters in. When he got to the city, he'd get a job. He could do anything, and his dad was fond of saying that there was always work for strong back and a willing mind. He hoped Dad was right. As soon as he was settled, he could let his family know he was okay. He would be—he was sure of it.

Clark felt a slight vibration under his feet, but he was distracted by the return of the dragonfly, it'd brought a friend. The insects flew around and around Clark's head, and he had to laugh, wondered what it was that made him so interesting. He stepped carefully from one wooden tie to another, the slight creak of wood, the call of birds, and distant hoot of a train whistle all tied together to make music—

_I'm a roaming cowboy riding all day long,_  
Tumbleweeds around me sing their lonely song.  
Nights underneath the prairie moon,  
I ride along and sing this tune. 

Clark grinned and shifted his bag…that just seemed the right song for a journey. He heard the whistle again, and distance made it sound mournful—

_See them tumbling down_  
Pledging their love to the ground  
Lonely but free I'll be found  
Drifting along with the tumbling tumbleweeds…. 

That whistle was pretty darn close, he thought, and as he thought that, the trestle vibrated again. Train coming, he thought, and got ready to climb off the tracks. He took a deep breath, climbed down onto the metal understructure. He could sit on a cross beam—he was strong enough to hold on. He slid one foot along the beam spanning the underside of the bridge, took his hand off the upright so that he could sit—and fell. The train raced overhead, and all he heard was the scream of its passage, the shriek of metal wheels on metal tracks, the rumble of the ties, and his own voice screaming in fear. He dropped down into the chasm, down towards the river, and the rocks—maybe not far enough to kill him, not right away…his bag tried to sail away and he grabbed it to his chest, closed his eyes and screamed.

He hit the bottom of the ravine, totally missing the water; hit the bank with a sound like dynamite going off on in a pond. He lay there waiting to die. He groaned. Dying, dying, trying to breathe...the pain, the pain….

Wasn't nearly as bad as he'd been anticipating. 

Clark sipped in tiny little bits of air. He felt like that time he'd fallen from the hayloft—it'd knocked the air out of him and shook him up, but not much more than that. He'd just fallen three times that height, hit rocks and dirt and—he rolled to his knees—made a trench in the ground, holy geez—and driven a rock deep into the dirt, a rock that should have snapped his spine. He fell shakily back to his butt. His hand was clenched around the strap of his pack and he had to force his fingers to open. He drew in a deeper breath and thought, _I'm an even bigger freak than we knew._ He didn’t know whether to crow with joy...or cry. He was thrilled that he was still alive…and he wished he had the cross.

Clark stood, and weaved slightly. He wanted to say a prayer of thanks, but he wasn't sure if it was—right to do so.

He walked when he could have run because he didn’t see the point of running. What did it matter? He was feeling hungry, finally, and a little thirsty. Somewhere along the way, he'd have to find a place to sit, eat, maybe sleep. He was oddly tired. Clark yawned, and yawned again—he was really tired. The sun was dipping, and it was getting cooler, and he felt it. He reached into his bag and pulled out a shirt, pulled it on over the one he was wearing. He sniffed. Something was burning…no, not burning, cooking.

There was someone under the last leg of the trestle, in a little curve of the river; a man was making a fire, cooking something. He looked up when Clark's shadow fell across him, and he smiled.

"Sit, we're just about to have stew. Or a reasonable facsimile, thereof. Pull up a likely patch of dirt and have at it." The man stopped and stared at him. "Goodness. You lost your battle with the windmill, I see."

Clark looked down and winced. His clothes were stained and torn, and he was filthy. "I—I guess so," he said, not getting the reference, but understanding the intent. He dropped to his butt, and sniffed hard. The stew smelled good, and his stomach actually rumbled. "I wouldn't mind eating. Thank you, sir." He knew well enough not to ask if there was enough—you didn't insult a person by implying they didn't have much.

The man smiled and handed Clark an empty tin, and then filled it by dipping another in the pot and pouring the stew into Clark's. "I'm on my way to the jungle at the end of this line—right before we get into Metropolis."

"Oh! Metropolis—that's where I'm headed. "

"Ah, off to make your fortune, young man? Well, you're a brave sort. And adventuresome. Do your—" he started, looked Clark up and down, and just smiled. "Well. Eat up, and I'll tell you a little bit about the road."

They ate while the man talked and afterwards he pulled out a bottle of sweetly sharp-smelling alcohol. He winked at Clark and tipped the bottle up. "The waters of Lethe, my dear young man. There are such as I am, who dearly value its properties…." He took a long drink, and Clark could see his Adam's-apple bob like a duck in a pond as he swallowed. With a grateful sigh, he delicately wiped his lips and said, "Pardon my lack of manners—I failed to introduce myself. I am, young sir, Reginald Harley—Reggie to my friends."

Clark wiped his hand on his shirt and held it out to the man. "I'm Clark Kent, Mr. Harley. Thank you for feeding me."

"Reggie, dear boy, call me Reggie. I have the feeling that you and I are going to be great friends."

"Reggie," Clark smiled and looked down into his little soup 'bowl,' and completely missed the look of pain that flowed over Reggie's face before disappearing into the gentle smile that seemed to be his usual expression.

@@@

The next day found them at what Reggie called the hobo jungle, under the intersection of a couple of rail lines. Clark had met hobos before, they'd come—rarely—to the farm, looking for food and work. He'd had some idea that they were people who had no homes, but…this was nothing like he'd expected.

Reggie walked him through and introduced him to the people there. The 'jungle' was a small huddle of lean-tos and tents, made of boards and tin and canvas. There were fires scattered here and there, and the people tending the fires were friendly, curious, but not at all suspicious of the stranger. Being a friend of Reggie's counted for a lot, he saw—or the 'Professor', as a few called him. Everyone knew him, called a greeting, or offered him a share of stew, a cup of coffee. There were a few men gathered in the center of the camp, chatting, boiling rags in a big pot over a fire. Clark saw, when he got closer, that the rags were clothes.

The day's events began to take their toll—Clark blinked hard, and swayed a bit. Everything began to be too intense—the thick smoke of the fires, constantly shifting shapes and shadows leaping in the dark, and the ever-present shriek and clang of the trains overhead—not to mention falling from the trestle to what he was sure was going to be his death—all of that rose up and pushed Clark close to the edge….

Seeing that Clark was dead on his feet, Reggie put a hand on the boy's shoulder and gently guided him back towards a small area that was close to the camp, but separate. He crouched in front of another hut and quickly built a little pyramid of twigs and dried moss in a circle of stones, while Clark unrolled his bag in front of the tin-sided lean-to. "Clark, you might find that sleeping under the stars becomes a vastly less desirable thing when you actually have to do it. You can sleep inside my truly humble abode, you know."

The fire caught, and Reggie blew gently on the flames until the twigs burned well.

"Oh, thank you, Mister—I mean—Reggie. I'm fine here. Really." The cold air held just the slightest crispness for him and the fire was more than enough to keep him warm. Reggie looked very sad for a moment—before Clark could even be sure of his expression he had his habitual small smile firmly in place. "Sleep well then, my dear boy. We'll move on in the morn—until then, sleep, and may angels watch over you."  
Clark smiled, rolled to his side and pulled the edge of his bag up to his nose. Reggie was a nice guy, a real gentleman…he wondered why someone so obviously educated and mannerly was living a hobo's life.

Songs in this section  
[Tumbling Tumbleweeds by Sons of the Pioneers](https://youtu.be/_UiSMyyj-Ac)

Reggie took Clark under his wing, and Clark was glad. He was in no particular hurry to move on alone. The 'bo's life was a nomadic one—it wasn't often they spent more than one night in the same place, and to his own surprise, Clark took to the wandering life quickly. As for Reggie, he took his tutelage of Clark seriously—he taught him the type of places to go to get day work, where to go for food or clothes…he taught Clark to read the signs they left for each other. For Clark's part, what he'd done with Whit turned out to have practical application in his life now. From him, he'd learned to palm things and it was easy for Clark to glom a pack of cigarettes, a bag of coffee, or a can of milk. He always made sure to nick Reggie's favorite—Lifesavers, because he loved to see his eyes twinkle.

Days and nights came and went almost without his notice but, eventually, he realized winter was right around the corner, and Clark began to worry about Reggie. The cold had brought with it a persistent cough that shook Reggie harder and harder as time passed.

"I think, my young friend, that it's past time for me to move on. Perhaps Florida—-or California—they say it never rains there, and the oranges grow big as your head and all you have to do is walk down the street and lift your hand to pluck one from the branches…."

"Really?" Clark asked, wide-eyed with wonder, picturing always sunny avenues lined with bowed trees, their branches thick with bright-orange fruit…

Reggie fixed him with an ice-gray stare. " _No_ Clark, Clark…have you learned nothing from me, my dear Antinous? 'If the sign says _'free lunch',_ put your hand over your wallet, because there's no such thing'." He took a deep, deep drink of a terribly sweet-smelling wine and sighed. "Ah…whatever seems free at first glance, will eventually cost you dearly, my boy. One way or another, we all pay."

Clark shrugged. That may be true, more than likely it was. He'd paid for thinking—hoping—that he had a friend in Whitney. He stared upwards, watching sparks from the fire fly up and dance against the velvet darkness. Like his hope, they sparked briefly and then disappeared, and then Reggie startled him by saying what he'd thought aloud. "Life, my dear boy—'although affliction cometh not forth of the dust, neither doth trouble spring out of the ground; yet man is born to trouble as the sparks fly up.' We err, we suffer, and pay the price…I have paid the price and paid the price and I fear it can never be enough…" He looked up and smiled at Clark. "Oh, don’t look so worried, my dear boy. I'm fine, I promise you."

Clark looked at the long, thin form stretched out on a doubled piece of canvas, as close to the fire as the older man could get and not set himself aflame. He'd refused Clark's bag and coat, and shivers wracked him from time to time. "Tomorrow, Reggie, can we go into town, and maybe…maybe someone will let us sleep in a barn? It's too cold out here on the ground for me," he pouted, and Reggie laughed.

"Clark, Clark—you’re as transparent as glass, but yes, we'll look for a barn or garage tomorrow."

@@@

Wind blew through the tall brown grass at the edge of the train tracks, made it bow around the two hiding there. At the sound of a warning whistle, Reggie reached out and tapped Clark's arm, and they scrambled up to stand tense and intent on the edge of the tracks.

"Now then, Clark, watch me—remember—do exactly as I do." The shriek of metal against metal filled their ears…the train was beginning to move, and the open boxcar Reggie pointed out moved slowly and ponderously towards them. Reggie tossed the bindle he carried—a canvas bag on a stick—into the open boxcar, grabbed onto the metal rungs on the side of the car and began loping along with it. With a loud grunt, he swung himself upwards, and landed with a thump inside the car. Clark ran alongside it, and Reggie yelled, "Quick, Clark, you won't be able to get aboard when it's close to speed!" He looked terribly worried, and something wicked inside Clark laughed and spread its wings.

The part of him that sometimes felt a real joy in what he could do rose and elbowed him…there's nothing to stop you now, no cross…no disappointed looks, no one to scold you…He ran faster, faster, flung his bag into the car just as the train swept around a curve and took him out of Reggie's sight—he heard the man's shout of dismay. Clark watched it for a bit, smirking, letting it gain more and more speed before sprinting after it, running faster and faster until he felt he was running even faster than the night he'd left Smallville. He was at the open door, caught sight of Reggie's truly sad expression…and he leapt onto the boxcar with a boom, the car vibrating with the force of his impact.

"Jesus!" Reggie went from sorrowful to frightened—he went the color of milk, and fell against the wall of the car. Even over the noise of the train, and the shriek of the wind, Clark could hear Reggie's heart stutter. He fell to his knees, and held out a hand. Reggie's lips were blue from shock, and his breath came short and sharp—but he reached out and grabbed Clark's shaking hand. That Reggie touched him—allowed him to touch—made Clark feel just a tiny bit better. "Reggie, I'm so sorry—please don’t hate me!"

"Clark—Clark—h-how did you d-do that? You…" the color slowly returned to his cheeks, he licked his lips. "You're…" Clark closed his eyes and waited, feeling dead inside. Waited for Reggie to call him a freak. "…an angel, aren't you?"

 _"What?_ Reggie…I'm nothing _like_ an angel! Far from it!" Clark could barely grasp that Reggie wasn't terrified of him.

"Fine—then you're an ancient god, a messenger from Zeus' court, you're a kinsman of Oberon—whatever it is, you're magic." Reggie stared at him in awe. "Maybe…maybe I'm forgiven, after all."

"Reggie—I'm just me, same as always. Just me." Clark dropped his head. What a stupid thing he'd done…what a horribly stupid thing. He felt a tentative touch to his head, a barely felt stroke of his hair, and slowly leaned into it. The stroking hesitated, and continued, stronger.

"My boy. I know that. Nothing has changed. But maybe what I've hoped for has come to pass, at last." Reggie wouldn't explain, and didn’t speak again about what Clark had done, but he seemed a little more…at peace.

@@@

By late afternoon, Clark and Reggie were walking into the outskirts of Metropolis. They passed a place Clark thought was likely, a large barn, where city people stabled their horses and ponies. There was a symbol chalked on the wooden gate in the wire fence, it depicted three slanted lines of equal length. Clark started to head for the open gate and Reggie stopped him. "Remember this sign, Clark? It's unsafe for us here, let us wander on a bit, and perhaps we'll find a safe harbor."

As they strolled along the alleys and small streets, Clark pointed out the various signs and Reggie quizzed him on what they meant, and when Clark found a doorway that had a symbol chalked on the frame, a child-like drawing of a cat, he bowed low and indicated the mark with a flourish. Reggie smiled and winked at Clark, and returned the bow. "Ah. 'Here lives a kind woman'. My dear boy, our luck has taken a bright new turn. We'll get a meal, and maybe a place to sleep."

He knocked at the door, and when a woman answered, he took off his hat and looked so saint-like that Clark waited for a halo to light on his head, and angels to sing. He tried to hold back a giggle.

"Missus, a fine day to you. Is it at all possible that you'd need any work done? We’re quite eager to work, in exchange for a meal…."

The lady blushed a bit. "You and your brother need a meal?" The two men looked at each other, surprised at her assumption. "Well, I've got a shed needs emptying. If you can do that, I'm sure there'll be a hot meal in it for you." Reggie twinkled at her, and got another blush, and soon they both sat comfortably on the back stoop, steaming mugs of hot tea in their hands.

@@@

They began their cleaning of the old shed, crammed with what looked like generations of cast-offs of every kind. Reggie sat on an overturned crate, humming as he watched Clark work. Clark smiled. When he'd reminded Reggie he really didn’t need help, and that their only problem here was Clark remembering not to work too fast, the man was more than content to sit and watch Clark work and spin tales. Clark looked at him from time to time, surreptitiously examining him. He saw something he hadn't seen before. Reggie wasn't as old as he'd first thought. Do away with all the dust of the road and the exhaustion of life without support, and he looked to be maybe ten years older than Clark—maybe less. Under the brim of his hat, grey eyes sparkled with humor, he was shaved as well as possible, and a small scar twisted up the corner of what was otherwise kind of a beautiful mouth. Clark felt funny noticing, but it was true—he looked like one of those Greek busts the art teacher had pictures of, only with straight hair, and really a lot of grime…Clark grinned to himself. What had brought him out to this life, gentleman that he was? Clark wondered if he should dare to ask.

They were allowed to spend the night in the shed. The homeowner even let them have a small kerosene heater, and it was pretty comfortable Clark thought. Reggie was burrowed under a horse blanket, and his ever-present flask was at his side. They were chatting about nothing important, and Reggie seemed to be quite a bit drunk. His eyes were glazed and his vision was fixed on some distant spot in the past. "Once, I attended a presidential ball…it was…God, so boring," he laughed. "But Mrs. Harley looked fine in her navy gown, and she sparkled like a jewel. I cared very much for her, dear boy—I think she was the best part of me. We danced all night and then…." He stopped, took another sip and went on, "What was I…my son…my son was a beautiful boy."

Clark kept silent, not sure if he should speak or not. Reggie sighed and focused on Clark. He took a deep pull of his flask and breathed out, "Clark, this life is not for you, son. You were meant for better than this—"

"But I like this, Reggie—I mean—I like traveling with you. Talking to you. You're so interesting—I've never heard of some of the things you talk about—history and art and music. We never talked about that in school."

"School." Reggie closed his eyes and smiled, but not before Clark could see the great well of pain in his eyes. It made him hurt too, but he had no idea what he could say, how he could offer comfort.

"Did…did she die, your wife? I'm sorry, but…you seem so sad."

Reggie looked surprised. "Die? No, no, circumstances, things happened that brought me to…" he sighed, laughed a little and spread his hands. "...to this. But I have a grand companion, and the sacred waters of Lethe, and…a song, perhaps?" He twinkled at Clark and Clark laughed, knowing full well Reggie was changing the subject, but he sang for him anyway. Reggie leaned back, wincing hard, but tucked his arms behind his head and closed his eyes to listen, hum along.

_…I was blue, just as blue as I could be_  
Every day was a cloudy day for me  
Then good luck came a-knocking at my door  
Skies were gray but they're not gray anymore 

_Blue skies_  
Smiling at me  
Nothing but blue skies  
Do I see… 

It was an old song, one his mom had liked too, so it made him feel a weird combination of good and bad to sing it, but he really liked how bright Reggie looked when he did. Reggie joined in and Clark loved his light voice, loved how it blended with his—and mostly loved that it meant Reggie wasn't as drunk as he first thought, and that meant a much better morning for the man….

_Bluebirds_  
Singing a song  
Nothing but bluebirds  
All day long 

_Never saw the sun shining so bright_  
Never saw things going so right  
Noticing the days hurrying by  
When you're in love, my how they fly… 

He was singing by himself again, Reggie must be asleep, but when he looked, his eyes were wide open, fixed on the past again, and he was crying. Silently, tears ran over his cheeks. He spoke, so quietly that Clark thought Reggie's words would have been lost without his power of hearing.  
"Professor Harley and his lovely wife, beautiful son. I had everything once, and threw it all away. Ah, Ganymede, if only I hadn't fallen so far, perhaps I could have saved us both…."  
Clark kept silent and let Reggie think he'd fallen asleep. After a while, Reggie's breathing was deep and even—Clark fell asleep listening to it.

  
_Songs in this section_  
[Blue Skies lyrics by Irving Berlin](https://youtu.be/FVz1ATv7vR8)

The city was a constant source of amazement to Clark. It was nothing like Smallville, nothing like Granville…it was…amazing. He walked along the streets grinning and gawking, his head swiveling this way and that, and refused to worry about feeling like a hick. Heck, as grimy and wrinkled as he was, folks were going to stare at him anyway. He strolled along, hands in his pockets and with his chin in the air, looking up at the tall buildings, amazed by the racket in the streets—squealing tires, the blat-blat of car horns, the growl of truck engines—there were more cars right now on the streets than he'd see in a week in Smallville. Voices echoed back and forth in the canyon of buildings, and Clark was finding out that people in the city yelled a _lot—_ at each other, from behind bright-colored pushcarts selling food, or newspapers, or gloves. In fact, it seemed any sort of thing you might want could be had rolling along the street.

In the middle of all that bright, loud, strange-smelling oddness, the sight of the mounted policemen atop their horses was almost a comfort. As they clopped along the streets, picking their way carefully where the road sprouted cobblestones, Clark caught their horsy smell, and their long faces and deep brown eyes said home to Clark. Their warm breath snorted out grey plumes of smoke into the cool air, and he laughed. When Reggie turned to him with an inquisitive smile, he blushed. "I'm such a farmer," he mourned, "I'm getting all sappy over the horses." Clark blushed harder under Reggie's gaze. His mother's eyes seemed to shine out of the man's face, such fond amusement, such…caring. Clark smiled back and said, "Hey now, what are we going to do about breakfast?"

Reggie grinned. "You shall see, young prince, you shall see."

On instructions from Reggie, Clark burst into song in front of a well-stacked cart selling fruit and cakes—and while everyone was distracted, Reggie flipped a few apples and some pears into his pockets, along with a small loaf of bread.

He signaled to Clark to walk fast, and they met up again at the next street corner.

Clark juggled the fruit in his hand and sighed. "Reggie…I don't mind doing this—just not a lot. "

Reggie looked at him sadly. "I know, Clark, that's why you can't live like this. But I have decided—you are getting a proper job."

Clark laughed sadly and held out his arms. His jacket was missing buttons, his shirt had a rip through it, his pants were held on by a rope belt he'd cobbled together, and there was dirt in every crease of his skin…"Reggie—no one will hire me. I look like I just crawled out of a trash can."

"Not for long, my darling boy." They wandered into a subway station, and in the public toilet there, Reggie cleaned Clark up as best he could. Clark bent over a sink, shirt folded up on his bag, and his hair wet from washing. He ran a wet rag over his arms, under his arms, and tried to work up a lather with the cheap block of laundry soap they'd bought. "You look…." Reggie reddened a little, and Clark glanced at him curiously. For the first time since he'd come to know him, Reggie seemed at a loss for words.

"Oh, gosh," Clark groaned. He combed his wet hair back from his face and scowled at himself in the streaky mirror. "Do I look that bad?"

Reggie laughed incredulously. "Clark—one thing you never can look is bad. Now, follow me, my stalwart friend, we seek gainful employment for you."

"For us both, right?" Clark asked, and Reggie smiled. "But of course, old thing, of course!"

They walked a neighborhood that was filled with restaurants, hotels, and bars that Reggie called night clubs. Night clubs—just like in the movies. Clark imagined the beautiful people that had to populate them, he wanted to be near them, see them, maybe even _be_ them. It seemed like they walked for hours, inquiring about work, being sent from one place to another with no luck. Clark wanted to stop—mostly he was worried that Reggie looked so grey and exhausted. He'd decided that this last place would be their last stop for the day. It wasn't like they had any particular place to be—ever.

They were in the back alley between streets. Steam from an exhaust vent filled the air with warm smells of cooking…Clark wrinkled his nose…and not so good smells of rotten food. They could hear loud conversation, and the banging of pots. A screen door flew open with a sharp crack and a young man dragging a huge can filled with food scraps staggered out to the curb. Reggie walked up to the flapping door quickly, signaling Clark to follow. A brusque man yelled at them, "No food—we have no food—," and then seemed to deflate a little. He peered out through the screen-door barrier. "—no food now, you come back, later."

Reggie shook his head and said, "Not a handout, my friend. We're looking for work."

"Work…" the man looked doubtfully at Reggie, seeing a shabby, gaunt, grey-faced man but when he caught sight of Clark, his eyes widened. “Hunh. You one big sombitch," he marveled. "Sure, for big strong guy, we have work. You come in the morning, and be ready for work, wash dishes, sweep floor—peel potatoes. Clean out stove. Hard work." He glared at Clark, challenging him.

Clark grinned wide. "I can do that," he said. "I know how to do all that." The man blinked a little before smiling back.

"Okay. Good."

Clark thrust out his hand. "Clark Kent."

The man smiled, shook his hand. "Good, Clark Kent. Tomorrow, you ask for Willy—the Hotel Luxor."

Mission accomplished, they next needed to find a place to stay, or so Reggie argued. Clark was content to keep living like they had been but Reggie pointed out, so far, they'd had nothing but good luck and though Clark with his marvelous ability could weather a fierce winter with no problem, he wasn't quite so sure about going through another winter….

"It's getting colder and colder and believe me, sleeping in the great outdoors leaves much to be desired when the wind is blowing sideways and filled with snow. Besides, you can't sleep on the street—I mean, we can't. If we're joining the great herd again, we have to look like the average John Doe, right? A place to sleep, to bathe, maybe a book or two…think of it, Clark—a soft bed and no rain on your face."

Clark smiled fondly. "Okay, Reggie. That sounds nice."

They found a neighborhood not too terribly far from the restaurant. "It's very close to the restaurant, you'll be able to get to work easily, and not even need a trolley. I dare say you can be at work in the blink of an eye, hmm?" Reggie teased. Clark blushed, grinned a little uncomfortably. He still didn't want to talk about it to Reggie. He wasn't sure how to talk about it. Reggie waited patiently and when he saw that Clark had no intention of speaking, he smiled and shrugged. "Well," Reggie said. "We'll discuss it at another time, dear boy."

Further foot work and liberal applications of charm, plus five dollars that Reggie had squirreled away on his person bought them a room. Tiny, plain but clean, the room was in a building that might once have been a fine home for someone, but was now sectioned off into multiple rooms for let. They'd been lucky; there was a window in the room, so there was a chance for natural light, and a little ventilation. They were even luckier that it opened out onto a courtyard and not the wall of another apartment. Further up the street were hotels, and more boarding houses. A lot of musicians and people that looked odd and…colorful…lived there. "Actors," Reggie explained with a sniff. "Try to avoid them, Clark—they're not the right kind of company for a boy like you." Clark had to stifle an incredulous laugh.  
A wonderful feature of the boarding house was the small blue-and-white bathroom halfway down the hallway that featured a sink big enough to wash a calf in, as well as a toilet. Clark thought it was close to heaven and spent as long as he could in it. He brushed his teeth forever, and washed himself thoroughly from head to toe, leaving nothing out. He emptied the sink three times, refilled it with fresh water, and rejoiced in being clean again. He combed his hair straight back from his forehead, liking the effect a lot. He frowned at it. As always, the ends rebelled and tried to curl. Some kind of pomade, that's what he needed…what was that brand Whit used, it smelled so nice…he frowned even deeper and chased that thought away.

He sighed. Of course, thinking of Whit led to thinking of home, thinking of family. He wondered what Hannah was doing right now…most likely saying her prayers and tucking Beans under the covers. Tonight was Friday, so she'd probably listened to Doc Savage earlier. He smiled, remembering how she'd nicknamed the loft 'The Fortress of Solitude' after Doc Savage's hideout. He wondered how his mom and dad were getting along without his help. Dad's workload had doubled, that much was certain. He tried to quell his feeling of guilt by telling himself that they were better off without him. Without his appetite, without his needing things, maybe they were even saving money. He sure hoped so. They'd be able to get some nice gifts for each other this year…he wiped his eyes and felt silly, but Christmas without his parents…it was going to be a hard day to get through. At least he had Reggie.

@@@

Back in their room, Clark emptied his bag, put what few items he had in the small dresser, and hung his and Reggie's jackets on the back of a chair. Reggie admitted that he was feeling under the weather, and Clark thought that he was looking paler than usual. His usually smooth voice sounded rough. After a brief argument, he got Reggie to accept the bed. He spread his sleeping bag on the floor and chatted with Reggie, as he got ready for bed.

"You should stay in tomorrow; this weather isn't helping you one bit. Maybe if you feel better later on, you can find out if the landlord has a hotplate to lend us—and don't forget to unpack. Make yourself comfortable." He smiled fondly at the older man. "I'll bring you some soup or something when I get home."

"Home," Reggie repeated. "Don't you like the sound of that, Clark?"

"I do, Reggie. Clark Kent and Reginald Harley, now at home to callers." He laughed lightly and Reggie chuckled. "Say, about unpacking, there's an empty drawer for you…oh, and there's a bakery at the corner, did you see? If you're not feeling too bad tomorrow morning, we can get breakfast there, and I'm thinking about writing my parents a letter to let them know I'm alive and well...."

Reggie chuckled. "Stop and breathe, Clark! But yes, writing your parents would be a fine thing to do. I know they must be desperate for word of you. We haven't spoken about them before, or your…circumstances," Reggie said carefully. "But I'm sure, whatever you think you did wrong can’t be so awful. I don't think it's possible that you could ever do anything really bad. Or…oh, no...." Reggie stopped and a horrified pity filled his eyes. "Could it be…your parents couldn’t accept that you're special?"

"No, no, they never hid from that part of me, not really. But to keep safe, we had to hide it from other people. We just—we had a lot of secrets in my family. I guess I just didn’t want for them to have more."

"More?"

"There was this boy…a friend of mine. I thought he was a friend. I was wrong. But…he made me feel…different. Not like. You know." He stared at Reggie, hoping he wouldn't make him say more—he must know what Clark was trying to say. "Don't get me wrong, I like girls. He just…confused me."

Reggie took a deep breath. "I—I understand that. Would it help if I say at your age, many young men are confused? They have momentary flashes of an uncomfortable feeling and worry when all along it means nothing. You shouldn't worry, Clark."

"Did you…are you." Clark stopped. He had no idea how to ask. "Are you unhappy?" he asked instead.

"Unhappy? I'm not unhappy. I…just am," he laughed. "I'm not certain it's a state to strive for. Now you go to sleep, and then tomorrow write your parents. You're going to do fine, Clark, you'll make good friends and good things will come to you, believe me. Your life is soon to become so much more interesting."

Clark snickered. "I don't know how interesting it's going to be in a hotel kitchen. At least, we get one good meal a day out of it."

Reggie reached out and turned off the light. "Pleasant dreams, my dear friend, may angels watch over you," he said, just as he had every night since Clark became his friend. A faint wash of red-and-blue colored the walls from a dancing neon sign farther down the street, and the faint sounds of traffic seemed to fall and rise in matching rhythm to the light. Rain against the windows made distant music and Clark could hear people talking, movement in the hall outside their room…he was being lulled to sleep by all these sounds, and then Reggie broke the silence.

"Atonement…" he murmured.

"What?" Clark blinked upwards, trying to focus on what Reggie was saying.

He was up on one elbow, turned towards Clark. A human wouldn't have been able to see him in the dark, wouldn't have seen the expression of pain on his face, but the dark was nothing to Clark. "Atonement, amends, penance…redemption. Do you believe that good works can bring salvation? I don't. No, that's a lie. Sometimes I do. I hope. I helped you, didn't I? And didn’t hurt you? I love you Clark, you're such a good person, a good soul. I wasn't exaggerating when I called you an angel, you know. When I saw what you could do, I really did think it was over. I was relieved. But every night I went to sleep and still, every morning, woke again. Oh my God, when will it be over?"

Reggie's voice rose and fell, his thoughts seemed to ramble and twist and Clark tried to make sense of them. "Why are you saying that? Do you think you need punishment—that's what you're talking about?" Clark was upset, and Reggie was frightening him. "You're not a bad person, Reggie, you can't be."

"The surface gives no real clue to what's underneath. You should remember that." He swallowed and went on. "There is a beginning, a middle, and an end to everything. In the beginning, I was a teacher. I taught history at a private school. I fell in love with a student."

"So you fell in love…that…doesn't seem so bad."

"It doesn't, does it? Words with no context. Surface. The boy was…he was younger than you. It was bad and ended badly. Of course."

Boy? Clark felt shock and something like betrayal. "Younger than me? But not much younger, right? Right, Reggie?" The Reggie he knew couldn't…wouldn't do anything bad. Clark didn't _want_ him to be able to. Horror seeped in, chilling his soul. "Did the boy understand? Did he know, or was he confused…." Like me, he almost said. Reggie was quiet for a long time before Clark realized Reggie was going to do the same that he did at times—wasn't going to answer, but he had to know. "Reggie, please. What happened—?"

"…the middle of the story." Reggie shook his head and touched the side of his mouth. "His father was beyond rage when he found out." Clark watched him trace the slim C-shaped scar. "I think he was going for my eyes, or perhaps my tongue…." he spoke so low, Clark wasn't certain he was talking to him anymore. Reggie was silent for a long moment. "Go home, Clark...go home." He turned his face to the wall and was silent.

Morning came, and Reggie was still in bed, still facing the wall. Clark called his name but he didn't answer. He went to his bedside and shook his shoulder gently. "Reggie?"

"I'm awake, Clark...just tired, so tired. Do you mind going on without me, my friend?"  
He turned a bit, looked up into Clark's face and winced. "Ah. When you get home, we'll talk about the rest...the end of the story."

Clark went to pet his arm, and stopped, smoothed the bedcovers instead. "Sure. We'll talk when I get home. I'll bring dinner." He wanted to smile but, looking at Reggie's expression, he couldn't. He left the room and headed out to his new job.

@@@


	5. Chapter 5

The kitchen was loud, hot and steamy, filled with the smell of food in various stages of preparation. White-tiled floor and walls reflected back the noise. The counters and tables were clad in stainless steel, and pots and plates hitting the surface added to the din—the crew danced around each other and the hanging racks of pots and, of course, added their voices to the racket.

Willy whistled when he saw Clark. "Tall boy for sure," he declared, and he handed him an apron. "You'll be paid at the end of the week, if you last that long."

Clark's first job was cleaning a stove. There were three huge stoves and the one he'd been pointed towards was down for the day to be cleaned. Clark stood in front of the hulking pile of grease-coated metal and knew that this job was the equivalent of a test _and_ being short-sheeted. He heard snickers and whispers behind him. Pretty boy—bet he's gone before lunch—he'll end up cryin' sure enough—kids these days…. He picked up his bucket and scraper and brush and grinned wide. This was going to be nothing like cleaning the barn—this was going to be a piece of cake. He glanced at the clock on the wall above the doorway and reminded himself—not _too_ fast....

An hour later, and Clark was trying to decide if 'specialness' was as good a thing as it'd seemed to be earlier. Sure, he wasn't getting splinters from the steel wool, and the gritty soap powder wasn't wearing his skin raw, the hot water wasn't burning him—but he didn't know if he'd ever get the smell of old caked-on grease out of his nose. He snorted, trying to breathe in fresh air. This was worse than cleaning the barn. At least the cows smelled of…of…nature. This—this was—he tried to lick his lips without opening his mouth. Was he ever going to get the _taste_ out of his mouth? He grimaced. Old grease, long-dead meals, dust, dirt, bugs…he shook all over and tried hard to ignore it all. When the bread came out of the adjoining ovens and filled the air with its comforting smell, he was pathetically grateful.

A shadow loomed over him. "So, how goes it, Kent—jeepers!" Willy leaned over his shoulder. "Gosh, that's amazing, damn thing looks brand-new! And fast—boy howdy—" Clark glanced over it—did he go too far? He didn't think so—it was clean, but not too perfectly clean—he hoped. "Get lunch, Clark. You deserve it."

One of the cooks handed him a bowl of soup, and he walked over to a couple of tables pushed against the back wall. He sat quietly, began to eat, and tried to ignore the curious stares. At first, no one spoke. Finally, one of the older men asked, "Clark, zat your name?"

He nodded, and the man, Antonio, introduced himself and the others at the table. "You like the work here?"

Clark smiled and nodded. "It's real nice to have a hot meal—this soup is _good_!" The others laughed and agreed the food was worth it and teased him a bit more. Clark caught Willy frowning at him, hoped he hadn't done something wrong. Before he could ask if he had, the man he'd met the day before slapped his shoulder. "I know you okay, you're good boy."

Listening to the men while he ate, he learned that Willy ruled the kitchen, but the Gentlemen owned the hotel, and the club attached to it. He was told that it was best not to think about the Gentlemen, not to ask questions, no matter what. Most of the kitchen help and the waiters were family or friends of friends, and all were indebted in some way to Willy. Clark was advised to keep his head down, do his work, and all would be fine. He nodded and smiled and smiled and nodded. Keep quiet. Work hard. He could do that. _That_ was something he understood.

By the end of the day, Clark had scoured the stove, what seemed to be a thousand pots, lugged garbage, and swept and washed the kitchen floors. When no one was watching, he'd put a burst of speed into the job—it made him smile.  
He was standing on the back stairs and shrugging into his coat, ready to leave for the day, when Willy came out.

"You'll be back tomorrow." Clark nodded and started to assure Willy he would be back, when it sank in that it had been an order, not a question. Clark grinned. "Yes, sir."

"Good." Willy shoved a small covered pot at him. "Soup. Monday is payday." The door slammed shut.

He strolled along, swinging the pot—he hoped that Reggie had convinced the landlord to let them have a hotplate to reheat it.

He was feeling very accomplished. He'd made money, he was bringing dinner home—for once, _he_ was taking care of somebody. He certainly didn't mind roaming, eating what they could beg or 'borrow', but he looked forward to squatting for a while, and staying put out of the weather would be better for Reggie. Some of the bounce left his step the closer he got to their room. He climbed the stairs slowly, stalling….the weight of last night's conversation came rushing back. Clark was reluctant to touch on it again—but he had to. Without knowing everything, how could he trust Reggie? And he really, really wanted to trust him, he did.

Clark was staring at the door to their room, and was about to knock, when he suddenly realized it was too quiet. Reggie wasn't there. Did he go out after all?

Once in the room, Clark saw Reggie's bag was gone along with his coat. He ran down the stairs out to the street and stood on the sidewalk, looking this way and that—how could he find him? He couldn't hear Reggie over the noise of the traffic—if he could see him—he stared about wildly. His heart hammered, and he felt sick. Reggie couldn’t leave him, he couldn't do this to him, how could he? Clark took a deep breath—he needed to think. He went back to their room and sat on the edge of the bed. Reggie…Reggie probably just went out to get food, or take a look around…okay. He'd come back, and home would be waiting for him. Clark knew Reggie would come back. He had to.

@@@

After a day or two passed without Reggie, Clark went looking—after work, he'd run out of the city and stop at depots and jungles up and down the Santa Fe rail line and, while at almost every camp he was sure to meet someone who knew 'The Professor', no one had seen him, no one had word of him.  
It was frustrating, and made him uneasy how completely Reggie seemed to have disappeared. Clark began to think—hope—that maybe Reggie had made it to Florida and its magic orange trees, or California, where it never rained, someplace where the dog's teeth were made of rubber and cops had wooden legs…he didn't want to think that maybe the reason he couldn’t find him was that Reggie's hope had come true….

The last time that Clark went out to look for Reggie, he avoided the camps and he kept to the rails. He walked long, long miles along the tracks, walking and listening to the trains, the men who worked on the tracks, heard their cussing, lying, telling tall tales, and the songs….

He listened to the creak and hiss of iron heating, cooling. He heard its music, how even over the shriek and groan of the metal being stressed, warped, coming back into shape it still sang, deep inside itself. And he could see it, saw the trains coming from far away, saw the tracks vibrate, the earth shudder…he concentrated, and could see _through_ it. Clark stood in awe—he saw the whole world as a ghost of itself, saw the lines of power that fed the train and the depot and ran above ground, poles carrying the sizzling, snarled loops of energy over the country side. It was incredible—amazing. He whirled around, threw his head back and yelled. "I'm here! Me too, Clark!" He felt like—flying! All this, seeing, feeling it—how could it be bad? Why should it all be hidden? He dropped his arms and sighed. He knew his family had only wanted to protect him, but…not to use this…not to see the world and hear it like he could….

Finally Clark knew—he had to let Reggie go, and it made him feel sad…angry. He sat in the tall weeds near the tracks, thinking, wondering about love and hurt. Wondering how it could be so easy to betray the people who loved you. Even he'd done it. Leaving his family like he had…Reggie taking advantage of someone barely able to decide for themselves what was right and...Whitney, who'd taken the easy way out, even though it hurt Whitney so much that even Clark could tell that it was killing him. Clark swiped angry tears away—he hadn’t been given the chance to decide his own fate. He wondered if the boy Reggie had destroyed himself over had been given a chance to decide or, had he been like Clark, thrown into it like a kitten in a bag. The wind picked up and whipped the weeds about—his shirt snapped in a particularly strong gust and grit in his eyes made them burn, startling him. At the same moment, he heard a noise behind him, different from the sound of the wind in weeds, the trains—he heard a voice crying out. He whirled towards it. A man trying to jump aboard a moving flat car chose the wrong moment it seemed—the wind worked against him, he was falling….

Clark looked and, in the space of a heartbeat, he saw the man was going to tumble right under iron wheels and, without really thinking, he was _there_ , pushing the man upright and onto the flatbed. He didn’t stop until he was on the opposite sides of the track—so fast the man never saw him, Clark was sure he never even felt his hands on him. He watched the train pull away faster and faster, and stood still to calm his beating heart.  
"I saved someone…I saved them," he whispered in awe. If he hadn't been gifted with the strange, frightening, amazing ability to do what he just did, right now he'd be pulling body parts off the track. "Wow." He let the breath he'd been holding go, stared at his upturned hands. _I can help people—_ He felt the dull ache that had been with him for months, the knot in his chest he'd felt for the last few days loosening. I can do something…good. I can make it better.

@@@

Clark worked all day, and was in his room every night, waiting without really waiting. There was still a part of him that thought that maybe Reggie was coming back...or maybe it was just a feeling he had that something was heading in his direction. He needed to stay in Metropolis; he needed to know what that something was.

In the meantime, Christmas was coming and, as much as he felt the need to stay in Metropolis, he missed home, missed his family. He began writing letters home—letters that never left his notebook—but it was a comfort to write to Hannah, tell her what was in his heart. Of everyone, she was the one that understood best what it was he felt.

Dear Hannah,

I miss you. I think about you and Mom and Dad and hope that you are well. I'm fine. I have a job and a place to live. I have friends. I work in the kitchen of a fine hotel. It's good work, easy—you know why. If you were here, I would treat you to a day in the city. First, we would go to breakfast maybe at Woolworths, and then we could walk down Bessolo Boulevard, that's the street where all the plays are. It's very bright, and there's music everywhere. This is where they broadcast the radio shows too, they make Doc Savage right here. Maybe I can see if they have tickets for the radio shows. The hotel has a club and, every night, a band plays. I haven't seen the band yet, but I will. Waiters make more money than kitchen help and I have my cap set on being a waiter.

Yesterday, I watched them light the tree in Centennial Park. It was pretty neat. There were so many people everywhere, a band played Christmas carols and the tree was enormous. You've never seen so many lights in your life and, at the top, there was a giant stuffed cat, waving at everyone and dropping dust bunnies everywhere. I'm kidding! The top was a lighted star, but it should have been Mr. Beans. (wink)

I have to go, it's bedtime, but I'll write again.  
Love, Clark

 

Christmas was a few days away and Metropolis was wet and gray with sleet, but in almost every doorway and window, wreaths and ropes of evergreen hung. Clark walked the few blocks away from the boarding house to look in the windows of the department stores. He liked walking the street before work, happy to window shop and people watch. The decorated windows were wonderful, brighter and more colorful than anything he'd ever seen in Smallville. Some windows were outlined in colored lights, some had Christmas village displays, and Metropolis' biggest, fanciest store advertised the 'real' Santa. He smiled; remembering the time Hannah explained to him how Santa Claus was an impossibility. He shook his head and wrapped his scarf around his neck. The sleet was taking turns with snow now; real flakes fell to melt in the slush on the streets. Clark lifted his head and sniffed. There would be more snow tonight...he could smell it. They might have a proper Christmas snow yet, he thought. He put bare hands to his cheeks and felt how cold his skin was, even though he barely felt the chill inside. In fact, chilly weather had always felt comfortable to him. He had to remember constantly to wear a coat or a hat and gloves, to keep buttoned up when everyone else was shivering from the cold.

He'd been delayed a couple of times on the way to work. He stopped just short of breaking the hand of a dip trying to lift a wallet, snatched a whip from the hand of a rag man about to beat the poor old horse pulling his cart and gave the man a good stripe or two of his own before throwing the whip up onto the rooftop of a nearby building. He rubbed his eyes—he'd been so angry over the incident, he'd felt like he was on fire….

@@@

Clark was bringing boxes of produce to the back entrance of the Hotel Luxor, where the doors to the kitchen were; farther down the alley was the back door of the hotel's club. Willy always sent Clark to pick up what extras they needed because he came back on time, with exactly what he'd been sent to fetch, and no stops at taverns on the way. He glanced down the alley and saw that the fellows from the band that headlined at the club were beginning to stroll in, getting ready to rehearse. He noticed that they had a colored man in the band, and Clark stared in interest. He didn't look to be very much older than Clark—how lucky he was to be in the band, making music. The colored man looked up and caught him staring and grinned when Clark turned bright red. Clark dropped his head in embarrassment and hurried into the kitchen.

@@@

He hung up his coat and scarf, water from snow instantly melting in the kitchen's heat ran into his collar. It tickled and he shivered and, misunderstanding his shiver as a sign Clark was cold, set off a round of teasing and claims that if Clark thought it was cold now, well, he hadn't seen anything yet. In fact, last year Antonio drawled, they'd lost his brother in law in a snowdrift and didn’t find him again until July.

"Whataya talking about, why, winter before, we hadda give up cigars an' such, 'cause the fire kept freezing solid. There was little piles a' frozen flames all over—-fuckin' nuisance it was, when spring came 'round.…"

"That's nothing," one of the other guys laughed, and then told Clark "You think this is snow? Wait until it really starts to come down. One year, the milkman was delivering milk right through the second-story windows that's how high the drifts were, hand to God." Clark snickered but, as always, kept to himself. The teasing he received was affectionate, but never tipped over into real friendship because Clark didn't let it—he kept a distance between the men and himself. To them, there was something about Clark that made his reserve seem almost dignified and, they respected that, didn't push for more.

Still smiling over the tall tales, Clark started in chopping vegetables, washing dishes, and cleaning the prep areas for the cooks. He kept his eye out for Willy, meaning to pin him down about the waiter's job Clark had been pestering him about constantly. He'd been making noise lately that seemed to bode well for Clark's chances. Suddenly, a chill swept the room, everyone tensed. Antonio whispered, "The big boss...“ and Clark looked up.

A large man walked into the kitchen with Willy in tow. He _was_ big. He was tall and he was fat, and he looked down his nose as he strolled through the kitchen, his bearing so imposing Willy looked like he was fluttering along in his wake. He stopped at each station, looking critically at what was being prepared. He tasted, critiqued, he asked questions and looked the men up and down, frowning at a creased collar, an insufficiently starched coat or a grimy toque. He nodded approvingly at the stoves and murmured something to Willy, who pointed at Clark. The man looked him up and down as critically as he had the food.

Clark felt like he was being pinned by the jet-black eyes. The large man frowned, and Willy spoke again. The big boss stared at Clark and, finally, a corner of his mouth twitched upwards, his eyes looked marginally warmer. He looked Clark up and down again, more slowly this time, and it made Clark blush. Finished with his inspection, he nodded shortly to Willy...and was gone.

There was a collective sigh of relief, and the noise in the kitchen, even though it'd never really stopped, seemed to regain volume.

Willy called Clark over. "That was the manager, Mr. Louis. He runs the hotel and restaurant for the owners. Mr. Louis thought the kitchen was in tip-top shape, nice and clean. I told him you kept the place in order."

Clark smiled with pleasure. "Thanks, Willy."

"Yeah, well…I told him you didn’t want to be in the kitchen." Clark gaped at Willy. "Told him you wanted to be a waiter." Clark stared down at his feet, waiting to be told to hit the bricks. "So tomorrow, you report to Frank in the restaurant and, Clark...don't make me sorry."

@@@

Clark stood at the door to the restaurant, gripping his hands together and wondering if he should go inside. It was so easy working in the kitchen, hiding out behind the pots and pans and now that what he wanted was here—he wasn't so sure he wanted it after all. He took a deep breath…Okay. Now. Walk. He tried to screw up his nerve...he thought of Whit, watching him being roped onto the cross in the field and expecting him to just fade away into nothing…Hell no. Not anymore.

He drew himself up, threw his shoulders back. "Watch this," he murmured and stalked into the restaurant. "Frank?" he asked the first person he saw. The guy looked at him curiously and shifted a foul-smelling black cigarette to a corner of his mouth. He pointed to a short, thin man with basset hound eyes. "There."

Clark walked over, his back a straight, steel rod. He towered over the shorter man, and thought belatedly that looming over your prospective boss might not be a smart thing to do. "Fra—Mr—"

The man held his hand up. "Clark Kent. You come highly recommended," he said sourly. "Follow Henri and do what he tells you. Welcome to the Luxor Grill. Now, get out of my sight." He walked away and Clark stared after him, open-mouthed.

The man he'd spoken to earlier shrugged. "He's like that. But once you get to know him, you'll really hate him. Just do your work—"

"And keep my head down," Clark said. "Got you."

@@@

Clark found out that the stairs at the end of narrow hallway outside his room led to the roof. It was a pleasant discovery, and he soon came to rely on that little patch of tar and gravel—his private haven. He enjoyed lying out there on his back at night, no one to see that he didn't need a coat or scarf, watching snow swirl down towards him out of the black like dancing stars. He sometimes wondered just how far he would be able to see into the heavens—but he never tried. The thought was just too unnerving.

Clark was comfortable. He'd even say he was happy. He had a job, one he'd wanted and gone after, he had a nice room and was making it really his own. He'd taken pictures from movie magazines like Modern Screen and others, and tacked a few on the wall, he had a chair he'd found on the street that was in pretty good shape, and a crate that did double-duty as table and bookshelf. He liked the way it all looked, like it was someone's home. At night, he'd either laze about on his rooftop haven or walk. As the days rolled forward, more nights found him walking from one end of the city to the other because he didn't really need much sleep, he didn't really need to stay in his room, and…he heard so much…so he walked.

While he walked, he tried to keep his eye on the helpless— he pulled a cat or two dozen out of trees, and fought fires. Too many times he stopped dips and cons and goons. There were times too, that all he did was bring something to eat to someone who needed it. Sometimes all he did was sit with someone who just needed a person to listen and, in a way, those nights were harder than the nights that ended with him dropping an unconscious crook on the jail steps. Things happened. He stopped a car crash by stepping in front of a speeding cab. He leaped three stories high to catch a falling toddler to whisk him back inside his apartment before anyone could see. He even blacked the eye of a loan shark who'd beaten a gambler in front of his family, even though Clark kind of wanted to take a shot at the deadbeat, too. The kids in that shabby freezing apartment were skinny as greyhounds and dressed in rags, and the wife was a hopeless shadow…he'd wanted to let him have it, but he couldn’t do that, not in front of his kids.

This evening he'd knocked out a guy trying to rob the little green grocers down a few blocks. He'd had to move pretty fast, and he really didn't like doing stuff like that in the open, where it could be seen. There were already rumors of an 'angel of the streets.' He shook his head. He'd have to be more careful, charging around like the Green Hornet or The Avenger. He laughed at himself—course, they didn't have to be home in time to get cleaned up to wait on tables. In a way, he felt like all this, everything he could do, he owed to Whit because without…hating Whitney...just a little...for what he'd done, Clark wouldn’t have been able to make any of it happen.

@@@

The sun was beginning to shine over the top of the Daily Planet globe. He watched it rise, painting the bronze globe with gold and fire, thinking.

He let Reggie go; it was high time to let Whitney go.

He took a deep breath, let it out, long and slow and headed back to the boarding house.

_Part Three_

Alex walked out into the lobby of the hotel, whistling, feeling strangely on top of the world, considering he'd slept alone last night. He wondered if Pete had sent the new arrangements to Walt—-maybe he should call him and see. He stuck his hand in his pants pocket, looking for a dime. He found matches from his favorite club, a wrinkled piece of paper with a number he couldn't read from a night he couldn’t remember. He almost pulled out a crinkled square of foil before he remembered what it was. Finally, he found a dime.

He headed across the lobby floor, his heels scuffing over the Persian rug that helped to keep the noise of traffic on the lobby's marble floor muffled. He skirted around the comfortable old leather couch that faced the light pouring in from the un-shuttered front windows. He'd be back later with coffee and a paper to stake out his favorite corner of the couch.

Behind the big columns marching down the center of the lobby were a few writing tables, each with a pad of paper and envelopes with the hotel name. A couple of rubber tree plants provided a little bit of privacy for the public phones against the wall. He was just about to feed a dime to the phone when he glanced over to the shoeshine stand, letting his eyes roam—you never knew what talent might be hanging around. And luck was on his side…the young man leaning against the stand chatting to the old guy there was more than good-looking—he was incredible. He was a work of art come to life. Alex heard him laugh and it lodged in his chest and made his heart skip a beat. God, he was…the kid laughed again, throwing his head back as he did, glanced around with an embarrassed little smile on his face, and Alex felt an—an electric shock strike him—flow from the top of his head down to his toes—felt his eyes widen. From all the way across the lobby, he could see the kid's glowing green eyes looking into his—the whole world was reduced to a pair of warm green eyes….

The kid smiled just a little less. His eyelashes swept down, fluttered against his cheek, and rose a little. A blush of red spread over his cheekbones, and when their eyes met again, the smile was soft and shy, and Alex was so hard….

He jerked his attention away, realized the operator had been asking "Hello, your party, please?"  
It took him a moment to remember a number he knew as well as his own name.

@@@

It started snowing fitfully that afternoon—it had been threatening something since the morning sun had hidden behind the clouds. It seemed the heavens couldn't quite decide between spitting rain or spitting flakes. It was nearly night now and, at the moment, snow had given way to rain again. He figured this year they were in for a wet, grey Christmas—not that he gave a damn. He hated snow anyway. Hell, he hated Christmas. He wished that fat conman would try to get into his place. He had a bat under the bed with his name on it. Lex snorted. Yeah, sure. He kind of missed the fuss Jules would go through, dragging him from store to store, looking for something for Mom, for Dad…Jules. He had a big heart, that kid….

The sleet-slicked pavement mirrored the neon signs, streetlights, the roving lights of taxis and automobiles, changing streets that were dreary by daylight into picture postcard perception—a Hollywood stage set. People rushed back and forth, the night side was alive and about their business, whatever it might be. Alex stopped under the dripping canopy of the Luxor to light a cigarette. A few steps over, the maroon-and-gold canopy of the Al-Kazr provided a bit of shelter to early party-goers. He inhaled deeply and held it just a beat or two past comfort, blew hot smoke to collect under the canopy. He watched it thin and break up, thinking about nothing much.

Walt would be showing up any minute now—and there was Pete.

Pete hurried towards him out of the freezing night. His hat brim was glittering with ice and, even before he was under the canopy, he was complaining bitterly of the cold and wet. He stood next to Lex, hands shoved deep into his overcoat pockets and eyes tracking the movement of people on the street. Alex watched him. Pete never was still, really. He was always on the edge of alert, eyes always moving, watching…always a little tense. Always waiting for that moment he'd have to fight for his life….

Alex inhaled and exhaled again, realized the only time Pete was totally relaxed was at home, or in Alex's room. Or the time he'd been in his bed. Pete had been beautiful then…Lex sighed. He had his rule, and he didn't change it for anyone. . Unmovable, unchangeable…save for one person. He dropped the butt, and it died with a hiss on the wet pavement. Alex ground it into the concrete anyway.

Pete nudged him. "Say, man, you're thinking so hard I can feel it. What gives? You all right?"

"Right as rain, my friend, right as rain." Cabs disgorged passengers, subways gave up their riders and the boys in the band collected on the sidewalk. There was fast talk, snappy comebacks, lies of conquests exchanged as they came strolling in, headed for the basement rehearsal room.

@@@

Walt paced back and forth between them, suspenders up or hanging down as he snapped and pulled at them. Alex watched them rise and fall and laughed to himself—those suspenders were the barometer of his temper. He was nudging a guy here, poking another there. "Come on, cats—clean up this clambake—we gotta work together, boys, work together. Alex, get up here. What's this supposed to be?" He pointed at the music Pete had sent him the night before.

Alex shrugged and glanced at Pete at the piano. "Ready to swing, gate?" He snapped his fingers—Pete nodded, once twice, his fingers started to skip over the keys. Alex licked his lips, set the mouthpiece and began to blow. After a moment, the others joined in and jammed. Drums grabbed the beat and ran with it, sharp and quick, Bass matching it and good together, and Alex—Clarinet, slipping and sliding through the melody, taking the lead, and then dropping back as the brass stepped up. Piano grounded them—Drums took it, and Alex played with him, looping swooping notes blending with the drums, seducing the audience and, just at the point it seemed that it might get too much, too full and too much to bear—he made the clarinet laugh, giggle, skip and twirl. The top hats rang, Drums took center stage back and beat it up— the brass jumped back in, shouted, laughed, said oh, we got something, too—stomped out the beat, pointed out that hey, cats and chicks, it's swing time. The clarinet stilled and Sax took it home and Piano had the last lingering word….

Walt wiped his head, waved the sheets, and said, "Okay...okay."

"Yeah," Pete said, "and this part here," he hummed the section, "With Chloe scatting, this thing will be killer." Chloe was the new singer Walt had hired—-a pretty blonde with a big voice and a bigger personality who fit the band like a hand-in-glove. Alex liked her, so did Pete. She caught Alex looking and grinned at him, eyes sparkling. What Pete suggested put her front and center, obviously an idea she dug. She gave him a thumbs up and did a little bump-and-grind move. They started in again and, this time, Chloe jumped in, followed Alex, chased him through the music and swung out—Alex felt like they were flying. For the first time in a long time, he felt like he hit what he was trying for...hard.

Walt didn't look all that convinced—he wasn't partial to scatting, he liked a by-the-books kind of sound, controlled, and flexible only when it came to Alex's or Pete's solos. "Hmm. We'll see. Okay, from the top—Pete, lead out on your Metro Jump. Chloe, words, sing, smile, vamp, got it? Let's go guys—and this time, try to play like you're all in the same room—?"

Walt bullied, babied, and coaxed the band along, settling disagreements and smoothing ruffled feathers, as Alex sat on a table and watched. The sleet had given way to straight rain again, dripped and ran down the barred basement windows, the swish and hiss of it on the streets above, the blare of taxis, buses…the usual sounds of night...usually rather soothing but somehow tonight…it felt off. He felt jumpy, like something was going to happen...good or bad he didn't know yet.

They took a break, and Walt joined him at the table. "Coffee's coming—listen, that canary can wail and—wow, she's—umm, but I'm thinking I want—there should be—more sound. More punch. You know, like the guy—crooner—that Bink—Bing—with a big voice, that guy—smooth...."

"Walt. Jesus." Alex stopped him. "Breathe. I got you, we need a guy's voice, like a Bing Crosby, you mean."

Walt grinned. "Yeah. We need a different kind of sound. A gimmick that's gonna pull—hey! Glims on the boss!"

"What…" Alex rocked under the prod of Walt's finger. "Who—me?"

"Yeah, you, buckaroo, roll up that tongue, Romeo."

Alex cursed Walt under his breath but he was right about his eyes not being focused on him. Instead, he had focused on the kid coming towards him, balancing a tray of coffee—Alex felt a wave of heat and cold flash through him. That kid…the Eyes….

The Eyes were currently focused intensely on the cups and the carafe on the tray in his hands. The kid set it down with the hyper-careful moves of someone not familiar enough with the movement, the weight, to make the move graceful, not yet. "Your coffee, sirs." He straightened again, glanced at Alex, and at that moment, the guys in the band started jamming, and Chloe played along with them, scatting and dancing, they were all being silly and free, and the kid turned to the stage with a rapt look. "Wow," he breathed, full of admiration, and Alex felt a ridiculous stab of jealousy. "She's…really good."

Walt nodded, "She sure is. And when we get our crooner—it will really make the band—am I right Alex?"

Alex nodded, staring at the kid's perfect ass—real easy to do, the way he was centered on Chloe like she was killer-diller. The gleam in his eye was more than enough to tip Alex that the kid was straight. That was too bad—hell, it was a crime. "Yeah, Walt, make the band…"  
"Hey…I can sing…" The kid stopped and swallowed, his cheeks were so red Alex was afraid he was going to burst into flame. The look he gave Alex made his heart skip a beat. Poor guy, he'd just realized he'd put his foot in it.

"Sing—ha—" Walt snorted and gulped at his coffee, snapping his fingers at Alex. Alex sighed. "Why don't you ever buy your own?" he muttered, reached into his jacket and pulled his cigarette case out. Walt held his hand out until Alex lit one and tucked it in his spread fingers. He squinted at the kid through a cloud of smoke, drawled, "Oh yeah—every fuckin' busboy and waiter in this city's an undiscovered star—I'm telling you —everyone's got a g-damned act. Sing—-why if I had a nickel for—Alex!—make him sing." He bit down on the butt and inhaled, scornful eyes trained on the visibly wilting kid.

"You want me to, um…should I?" The kid was twisting his hands like a maiden aunt at a cooch show, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. Jesus. Alex looked away and gulped hot coffee—get a grip

"C'mon, son. Boss wants you to sing." Alex peered up at him. "So what's the word—you hip to the jive?"

"I'm—I'm pretty darn hip and—and not square—at all."

Alex bit his lip and shook with silent laughter—Walt groaned and slapped his forehead. "Oh God—you see it, Alex—-the corn—-stalks in his pocket an' leaves in his hair, I'm telling you—betcha a nickel he stinks on ice."

That got to the kid. He straightened up—he's so _tall_ , Alex thought. His hands stopped their dance and planted themselves firmly on his hips. His cheeks blazed, eyes flashed. "Oh you think so? You'll lose that five cents!"

"He means a fin—a fiver, son," Alex said gently. He felt bad for laughing at the kid. He might be a fish out of water, but he had a backbone. Thank God for that, because everything else about him said 'fuck me', and this town would be happy to do that. "A five-dollar bill—"

"I knew _that_!" The blush moved from the kid's cheeks to stain his face. He took a breath, muttered something and stepped back from the table. He crossed his hands behind him like a school boy and sang—just like that. Alex felt his heart squeeze—the boy was good. He sang like an angel, Alex closed his eyes to hear better and when he did he felt like he was flying…flying over Metropolis in the arms of an angel.  
_It seems we stood and talked like this before._  
We looked at each other in the same way then,  
But I can't remember where or when.

_The clothes you're wearing are the clothes, you wore._  
The smile you are smiling you were smiling then,  
But I can't remember where or when… 

 

Alex knew the boy was looking at him—he could feel his eyes on him, feel them pinning him down. He had the strangest sensation—as though this was first time he'd ever really heard the song…there was a meaning there he'd never understood until this moment. He opened his eyes, opened his mouth to say something…anything, and the guy faltered…gulped and stopped, and his eyes shimmered. He dropped his head, shook it like he was irritated and made to step back and Walt snapped, "Keep singing."

The guys in the band were staring and Chloe was staring—everyone was quiet, waiting. The kid nodded, looked away and went on.

_Some things that happened for the first time_  
Seem to be happenin' again  
And so it seems that we have met before,  
And laughed before, and loved before,  
But who knows where or when. 

He stopped. "I'm—that's it. Do you want me to sing something else?" He shrugged and smiled, a tremulous quirk—he threw his shoulders back, lifted an eyebrow, and the quirk bloomed into a bright white smile. "Or should I just bring you more coffee?"

Walt glared at Alex and Alex shrugged, nodded. Walt rolled his eyes and looked at Chloe—she nodded too, her smile nearly as blinding as the kid's. Walt threw his hands up. "You're a singer in a band, kid."

"What? Just like that? I mean, really? Really? I can't—- _thank_ you, mister…mister…"  
"Walt Cook—call me Walt. Don’t call me Boss." Walt growled with a pointed glance at Alex. "And protect your ass, country."

He looked confused and Alex laughed. "Don’t worry about him. What's your name, boy?"

"Clark. Clark Kent."

Walt looked puzzled. "Clark Clark Kent? Where are you from?"

"Jesus Walt, please tell me you're not being deliberately obtuse —the boy's name is _Clark _Kent. Right, son?" Alex smiled at him, and the kid—Clark frowned back.__

_"I'm twenty years old; I'm hardly a boy and I'm definitely _not _your son."___

___"Noo…I guess not…Clark. Sorry about that, fellah." Alex was pretty sure Clark was exaggerating. More like eighteen—or else a _very _young twenty. Maybe they grew them like that on the farm. Poor thing probably never had a harsh moment in his life, all peaches and cream…the city must be an eye-opener for him. Meanwhile, the kid looked like he wanted to lick the ground Chloe walked on and the way she was eyeballing him, it looked like he'd be licking _something _soon. He lit a cigarette and said, "Her name is Chloe."_____ _ _

_______"Hunh?" The kid turned back to him with the hint of a smile on his face. "I'm sorry?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______He jerked his chin towards the stage. "Chloe Sullivan. Our canary."_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"Oh. Thanks. What's yours?" he asked and blushed. "I'm sorry—that was rude. I know better than that."_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"Hey, none of that, I asked you first. And after all, we're practically brothers with you in the band now." He held out his hand. "Alex. Alex Roth." He smiled at him and the kid smiled wider, getting the feeble joke._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"Pleased to meet you, Alex Roth."  
Walt stood and held his hand out. "You better go let your old boss know what's going on—tell him come see me. See you tomorrow, ten o'clock, Clark Clark." Clark shook Walt's hand, beaming the whole time, assuring him he'd be there bright and early._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Alex watched the kid walk away and thought _'damn, that ass…'__ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"Alex. Hey, Alex…" Alex jumped and focused on Walt._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"Geez—can you believe—you're kind of—say," he said, and his eyes softened, and he put a hand on Alex's arm. "Say, are you okay?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Alex stared at Walt for a long moment before catching his breath, "Yeah, yeah, Walt, I'm fine. I just…I guess I'm a little tired is all." The noise of the band breaking up behind him pulled him out of his funk. He heard the tap-tap of heels, little quick steps, come up behind him, and a soft cheek rubbed against his scalp. "Chloe…" Her arms went around his neck and she sniffed him. "You smell so good. Walt, why can't you smell this good?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"What for?" he smirked. "I'm catnip to skirts without the par-fum baby. I know right now you're thinking, Lord, how can I get that prize bull of a man to toss me a crumb—"_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"Oh, it's prize bull, all right." She slid around the chair and plopped herself into Alex's lap. She wrapped his tie around her fingers and purred, "How'd your little friend get so funny? Now, 'bout that tall drink of water…Walt, baby, tell me you hired him…or else."_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"I did, you loose woman. Behave yourself—I need that voice—don’t go messing things up."_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Alex tried not to tighten his grip on Chloe's waist. He knew that she already had the boy bagged, tagged and had his head on the wall. The way the kid had been checking her out, he was a gone goose. Alex swore what made her happy made him happy, he was right behind her, ready to go to bat for her, and—and—_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"Alex, honey—I gotta breathe."_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"Shit, sorry Chloe, just thinking. About that battle of the bands next summer, _Walt. _"___ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________Walt threw his arms up. "God help me—I gotta get a drink!"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________He got up and left and Chloe watched him. "Starting to wear him down, love."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________"Yeah," he laughed. "Damn, I've never seen anyone so hell bent on not reaching for the brass ring." He shook his head._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________"Walt's happy where he is, hon. Not everyone has some magnificent destiny in the offing." She turned to face him and twined her arms around him, kissed him on the lips. "So what's on the menu for tonight?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________"Ummm…how about dinner, club hopping, than crazy mad love-making in the back of a hack?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________"Oh sugar, that sounds great and I sure wish it was me in the back of that taxi with you," she sighed theatrically and rolled her eyes._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________He laughed. "What makes you so sure it wouldn't be?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________"Oh I know all right," she pouted. "Remember the first time we worked together? I plastered the giant smooch on your kisser—to 'get that out of the way?' I thought you'd die. Boy, was I barking up the wrong tree." She laughed, and he threw his arms around her._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________"Trust me, dollface, if it could ever be a girl, it'd be you, see," he said in his best Edward G. voice and it was true. He really cared for her. She was great fun, had a huge heart and a giant voice and…she was like family to him. "Hey, you were eye-ballin' the new guy pretty hard. He's something else, hunh?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________"Oh, yeah he is. Dibs on him," she grinned. Alex laughed._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________"No problem Blondie, he was all tooth and woof looking at you. All you have to do now is lay out the welcome mat and wave the leash." He stood and swung her to her feet. "Now, scoot, Daddy's got things to do."  
She winked, grabbed her coat and danced off towards the door and right behind her strolled Pete, coat over his arm and a big smile on his face. "Say, Mom's waiting for you to let her know what to cook on Friday—"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________"Oh—damn! Pete, shit, I forgot. I have a date Friday, an old school friend. We get together every couple of months and well, he called to let me know he's free…I'm so sorry, but we hardly get to see each other and it's…important. Tell your mom I'll make it up to her, scout's honor…"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________"She's going to have your ass. You better send flowers Gee, lots and lots of flowers, and…how far can you crawl on your knees?" Pete grinned. "Don’t worry son, I'll try and smooth it over. But that means you owe me, _big _."___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________"Pete—anything, you name it." The minute he said it, he wanted to take it back. Could he possibly carry more guilt? But…_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Pete sighed. "Yeah, I'll think of something," he said with a sad smile._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Alex looked down at the table. "Okay sport, thanks." He felt bad—but Pete knew the rule._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________

* * * 

_The song Clark sang. It's a current rendition but the style suits the story so well.  
_

[Where Or When](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=miRK1q84D6c&feature=related)

____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	6. Chapter 6

"Ah! God—aah.…"

The grip around his dick was tight, hot, and he felt it from the base all the way to his toes when it tightened around him. He grunted, hunched forward, and came into the soft velvet inferno…he shivered as the intense wave of orgasm receded, and life came crowding back in.

"Um…." He pulled out, careful of his sensitive dick, and the body under him shivered and groaned. Alex dropped down next to him, stroking quivering muscles, the hard and leaking dick. It jerked when he rolled his finger over the broad, wet head; a cloudy drop shimmered on his fingertip. Hazel eyes clouded with need met his. Alex licked his fingertip clean. . "Finish yourself, I want to watch."

"God…okay…." Those hazel eyes closed, and Alex stroked back dark, sweat-wet ringlets from his forehead. Watched as the young man's broad hand circled his dick and jerked hard and fast without playing at a show for Alex—moaning, body arched and tight with the need to come, just thinking of himself, nothing in his mind but getting off, and that made it so arousing to Alex, watching him, listening to him. Moments later, he was shouting, come streaked his chest, wet his hand…he melted to his side in a loose sprawl across Alex and his small bed. Alex grinned, watched him suck pearly strands from his knuckles; rub the mess into his skin.

"Move, I gotta get up." The bed springs jangled as Alex rolled to his feet. His pants were draped over the chair in dining alcove, and the money they'd agreed upon was in his pocket. He drew a few bills out, counted, stopped, and then added a few more bills. "Here." He handed the young man the folded bills with a short nod. "Worth the money, as always, Beebs."

The dark-haired man knelt on the edge of the bed and fished his pants up from the pile on the rug. Still naked, with his ass in the air, he crammed the money into one pocket and grubbed a wrinkled pack of cigarettes out of the other. He pulled a hand-rolled cigarette out and lit it before dropping the pants back on the heap. He inhaled deeply, sighed after a moment. "Thanks, Alex. If I didn't need to eat, I wouldn’t charge you. You know that."

"Eat? You make more than I do in a month." Alex grinned and turned the radio down a bit. They could still hear the crackly broadcast of the [ Camel Caravan](https://archive.org/details/Camel_Comedy_Caravan) leaking into the room. "But hey, business is business, right? And speaking of that...how is business?"

"Ah, Daddy, you know. At least I'm calling my own shots. Hey, here's some news for you, though," Beebs said. He pushed thick black hair back from his eyes, his broad forehead wrinkling in concern. "You know Wade Mahaney's been asking around about the Al-Kazar."

Alex frowned. _"That guy?_ What for?"

"Don't know—I just heard." Beebs frowned. It made him look older, and his normal look of lazy sexuality evaporated. "There's been a shake-up at the top, and Morgan Edge is the top dog now and, where Morgan goes, Wade Mahaney follows. Everyone knows that. Talk is Morty's out at the El-Kazar, and Mahaney is in. And, he has a habit of wanting to sample the merchandise, you know. All flavors."

"Shit. Edge heads the Gentlemen now, hunh? That's not exactly good news for anyone."  
"I know there's bad blood between your dad and Edge. And if you think you're out of it because your dad disowned you, you're not. They won’t believe he doesn't want you back—for one reason or another." He shrugged. "I know it came as a shock to Wayne senior that it wasn't possible to cozy up to them and then walk away—" He stopped, sucked up a lungful of sweet smoke, blew it out and then pulled it back into his mouth. His tongue curled like a cat's, playing with the hazy swirls.

"They decided to teach him a lesson. Unfortunately, it was Mother who paid when the bill came due. It should have been him. I guess I'm lucky they thought I was too pretty to waste." Alex saw through the mask of lazy smile and sleepy, hooded eyes. His heart ached for his old friend. "Nothing turned out the way we expected it would. Kind of funny, hunh? You're not on the inside track to being the youngest president ever, and I'm not in the family business. And when I see the old man at social affairs, he doesn't even speak to me—like this life was my _choice."_ Beebs stopped, took a steadying breath, and shrugged, "C'est la vie."

"God, Beebs, life is so damn unfair—neither one of us should be where we are—"

"Ah-ah. You're exactly where you should be—out from under the old man, and I'm doing okay…besides, what's 'fair'?" He rolled upright and crushed the roach in an ashtray, and stalked naked around the room, picking up his clothes. Alex was struck again by his grace, his power, leashed and wasted on this life.

"Well…I appreciate the discount. Couldn’t afford you, otherwise."

He put a hand on his hip and in an exaggerated drawl, crooned, "Awww, Daddy, don’t be like that. Business is business." His hazel eyes cleared and the smile he directed at Alex was small, but warm. The teasing, affected note dropped out of his voice. It was lower, slower—more genuine. "Lex, I worry about you."

"Me? Don't—I'm fine, more than fine. Now, scoot, I have to get to work and so do you."

"Um. My work is never done, Daddy." He dressed quickly, brushed his long hair back, and leaned over Alex. Resting one hand on the mattress, he slid the other under Alex's neck, cradled his head and kissed him hard and long enough that Alex was gasping for breath, lips tingling, and uncomfortably hard again when his friend drew back.

"Fuck—you _bastard,"_ Alex panted, trying not to squirm. 

The other laughed and drew back, slid his overcoat on. "I like your place here, honey. Getting rid of the joint with the funeral roses was a great idea. You're moving back up in the world," he teased. With a wave and an air-blown kiss, Beebs swept out of the room. Alex grinned briefly, before getting up to dress himself. Thought about the warning. Well, it remained to be seen—he'd heard about Mahaney, but he really was Louis' and Walt's problem. After all, he was just a guy in the band.

Beeb's warning came back to him in full force not long after.

@@@

It was a good night—one of the best, and it was due to Clark—Clark and Chloe together. The first night Clark sang with the band, Alex knew Walt had done a very good thing. Magic was happening and the crowd knew it. Instead of dancing, they swarmed around the stage, egging them on—"Get hot! Swing out! Go, egg, go!"  
The band took it in and gave right it back. That night swung, they jammed and jived until the last set, when they slowed it down and Clark crooned 'Where or When', like Walt rehearsed with him.

Alex remembered it like a dream. It was as if time had stopped—the dames had fluttered and swooned like sick doves and hell, he was pretty sure a guy or two in that crowd who'd come in dreaming of the blonde, went home that night dreaming of a tall, dark, crooner. He'd tried not to be jealous that Clark sang the song to Chloe, not to harbor any wild dreams of Clark singing that song only to him. Yeah. He'd finished with those sorts of dreams before he grew up.

At any rate, that night the crowd went wild, crazy for the sound Chloe and Clark made. Chloe and Clark—even saying their names together sounded like a song.

This night was no different—eyes locked, hand in hand and pretty as a dream, they were making the song they sang into something new, something that belonged to the two of them alone. Alex sighed. It was almost like eavesdropping on something precious, intimate—Chloe glowed when she sang with Clark and Clark seemed to be head over heels. They were young and they were in love…and then Walt was staring at him pointedly and Alex paled. Jesus—almost missed his cue. He felt a deep flare of anger and disgust—at himself. He licked his lips, put the clarinet to his mouth and began to blow, his fingers pressing, releasing, caressing the clarinet, making it sing. His eyes were closed. Now, he was in a world that belonged to him…he created it, he ruled it. It was his….

He dropped the gob stick and looked around, frowning. He'd sounded…passable. He was pretty sure it was okay. The crowd was applauding but…he glanced at Walt, who nodded. Good. He looked towards the piano, and happened to catch Clark staring at him as if he'd never seen him before. Clark smiled a little, and it was ridiculous how damn good it made him feel.

Pete smiled, tickled the ivories and eased it in, a nice sweet piece to send the club's patrons home smiling. They were building to a solid send-off, Pete working his own brand of magic as usual. Alex looked around the club, watching spooning couples, bright laughter edging into brittleness this time of night, sugar daddies shepherding their little gold diggers, young wolves herding their conquests closer to the door, dipping and sliding across the polished black floor.

A tier of snowy-white tables surrounded the black lake of the floor, drapes led the eye around the tier and up another level to the VIP seats and, in one of several small pools of light cast by black and white shaded wall sconces, Alex caught sight of the new manager. He was at a private corner table, along with some frails and a couple of goons doing duty as bodyguards. There were quite a few bottles in front of them, but Alex noticed only the skirts were sucking it up. The muscle lounged around, laughing, talking, but their eyes were flat and dark—they were like lizards in hundred dollar suits—cold-blooded lizards packing heat. The head man wasn't even looking his way, and still, Alex felt an ice-cold wave sweep over him. Wade Mahaney….

Mahaney stared at the stage, eyes like ice chips locked on the singers. He licked thin lips slowly, never once taking his eyes away, leaned over to one of the bodyguards and whispered something. The guy nodded. Alex caught Walt's attention, made a slight movement of his chin, and Walt glanced in the direction Alex was looking. He knew Walt saw it the same time Alex did—one of the bodyguards was coming towards them, like a mobile brick wall. Shit.

The dancers were thinning out, returning to their tables, collecting wraps and bags, ready to drift out into the night. Mahaney's man was in front of them, and signaled to Walt to come to the edge of the low stage.

"Mr. Mahaney would like to extend an invitation to your singer to join his table." He rolled his massive shoulders, and his lips thinned. "Ten minutes. Tell her he don’t like waiting." He turned away without waiting for an answer. In the Gentlemen's world, there was only one possible answer.

Walt looked like he'd been stabbed. He swallowed and said, "This is not a good thing."

Alex knew that feeling. "Hey, maybe it's nothing." Walt looked at him like he was ten kinds of stupid. "Maybe—maybe he just wants to talk to her, and it'll be fine. Yeah, fuck, and I'm Peter Pan."

"Peter who?" Pete came up behind them, looked over their shoulders. "What's the story, cats? We digging something hot—oh shit." He saw Mahaney and his crew sprawled in the VIP section and stiffened. "Shit—I knew this was coming. You're going to unload me, aren't you? No, it's okay, I heard stories about him. You do what you have to—"

"Pete," Walt said.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, I'm a dead man. If I'm lucky, he'll just break my hands—"

"Pete," Alex said.

Pete whipped around to face the back of the stage and the exit. "Yeah, fuck that ofay too, I got friends. My brothers know folks who—"

"PETE!"

" _WHAT,_ God damn it?"

"He's not interested in you—it's Chloe he wants."

Pete gaped at Walt and Alex for a second, a dozen different emotions flashing over his face. He wiped at his lips, "Okay, good, thank Go—what? Oh shit. That's not good."

 

"Oh! Oh fer…" Walt walked away.

Alex glanced over at Mahaney. Thick, slick hair parted on the side, pushed back from a square forehead, he sported a big diamond stickpin sunk into a pale yellow silk tie, and a pinstriped charcoal suit, made to fit him like a glove. His face looked smooth as marble and as pale. His mouth was thin and hard…his eyes were harder. What he'd do to Chloe…the band. Not even Mr. Louis could win against Edge's lapdog. And if Clark found out about Mahaney's interest in Chloe…that could be trouble. He'd better see if he could take care of this himself.

@@@

"Mr. Mahaney."  
Wade looked past him, frowning. "Where's the blonde trim? I told her to come to the table."

"Could I talk to you in private…about that?" He looked into Wade's eyes, and watched the little wheels start to turn. "I'd really like to talk to you, for a few minutes." Wade was making some kind of connection, figuring some angle. He jerked his chin once, and everyone left the table, save the tall broad man who'd come to the stage. He looked like he'd give Clark or Beebs a run for the money.

"Sit. Talk."

Alex sat, leaned his elbows on the table and got right down to business. "Me for Chloe." He leaned closer, and hidden by the floor-length tablecloth he dropped his hand down, slid a finger along the curve of Wade's kneecap. "Chloe is a little girl. Sure, that could be…fun." He slid his finger over, stopping at the inside of Wade's knee. "But it won't last. Someone like her can’t last." Mahaney pursed his lips, looked down at the table. Alex whispered, "I can make it good—better than that, I can keep up with you."

Wade glanced at him, a strange shy smile that made Alex's stomach flip. "She must be something special for you to offer to give yourself away. Maybe I want to get to know her even more now. Maybe I'm not interested in anything you have to offer. Maybe, a guy could get killed for trying to pull some queer shit.…" Mahaney glanced back towards the human wall behind them. The guy unbuttoned his jacket with a stony glare, and Alex swallowed. He knew he wasn’t wrong about Mahaney. He knew it. Beebs said it was so.

Mahaney sneered. "Okay. Let's go."

Alex felt his blood drain to his feet. His chest ached for breath briefly, and then air ran back into him like a blessing. He went for his coat, passing Chloe and Clark on the way. They were smiling, holding hands, deep in a conversation that shut out the world. Walt was looking at him from across the club—he looked a little sick and worried, and Alex turned away. It really wasn't that big a deal, not for him, not like it would be for a kid still young enough to believe the world was fair.

He was almost at the door when he felt an odd warmth behind him, a big solid presence that he knew could only be Clark. It didn’t matter where the guy was—if Clark was looking his way, he felt it. If Clark was standing next to him, it was like a warm ghost hand stroking all over him. Alex swallowed and shifted—that big hand landed on his shoulder, real this time. Even as lightly as it touched, he felt pinned in place.

"Alex…are you all right?"

He turned to him with a smile. "Sure—why do you ask?"

Clark looked a little confused, and then smiled. "I don't know…you just seemed…"

"Clark, honey, there you are—Alex!" Chloe threw her arms around Alex and kissed him soundly, and Clark looked on with a wistful smile on his face. "Say, you boys are taking me to the train tonight, right? A lady shouldn’t travel alone."

Walt squeezed by, agreeing, "Sure, we want to get you out of town as fast as we can." He tried to make it a joke, but his voice cracked, and Chloe looked at him oddly. "Maybe you two can—you'll like old man Sullivan, C. C, you tell him hi from—hey! Why'd ya stop breathing—you okay?"

"I'm not going!" Clark looked scandalized that Walt could even think such a thing, and Alex hid a smile.

Walt flushed even redder than Clark, and dug thumbs under his suspenders. He stammered a little. "Oh-Oh! Well. I kind of thought—you being sort of—y'know—all the flossin'—"

"Jealous, little man?" she smirked, looking up into Walt's face. 

Alex snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her against him. "Oh, not so little," he whispered in her ear, and she giggled.

Clark turned bright-red, and Walt skewered Alex with an evil glare. "What kinda fairy story is that pansy telling you—see what you are—you're like the low-rent Prince of Lies—"

Alex whispered even lower, "Sure...I'm a prince…and he wants my scepter."

Clark looked like he was about to faint, his gold complexion gone pale. "But…pansy…he's kidding, right?" he stuttered, and trailed off, shocked eyes on Alex. Alex dropped his arms from Chloe. He felt a deep, sharp, pain pulse under his heart. He smiled at Clark, and Clark glanced away. He thought that he'd lost all capacity for that sort of pain, but lucky him, Clark brought it back in spades.

The boy coughed and moved back from the little group, red coloring his cheeks again. "I-I have to get…water. Pop. Tea…."

Chloe looked surprised. "Hold up, sweetie, I'll go with you." She took Clark's hand, and he pulled her away through the crowd. She tossed a confused look over her shoulder, shrugging before turning to catch up with Clark.

Walt sighed. "Thank God, she's heading out of town tonight. We'll—we'll come up with something after the holidays—you—I know you—get whatever stupid thing you got planned outta your head."

"Walt, Walt. You know better than anyone, I'm not stupid. Hey—you and Clark better get Chloe to the train. Me, I've got a date."

"Alexander Roth—you—I'm telling you—" He stopped, took a deep breath and said slowly, carefully, "Alex. That boy's not worth you throwing yourself away—"

Alex stopped Walt with a hug, slapped him lightly on the cheek. "Ciao—see you in the morning. And don’t worry. I know what I'm doing."

@@@

"So…sit. Drink." Mahaney jerked his chin at the glass in front of Alex, and out of nerves Alex grabbed it, drank a little too quickly. It was a pretty good scotch—it hit him hard and he coughed. Wade drew a perfectly manicured finger across his upper lip and chuckled.

They were in his suite, sitting together at a table that had been set up for a late supper. The Luxor's colors, burgundy and gold, dominated the suite, were worked in the drapes hung at the windows and the linens that covered the table. Mahaney's suite was nearly as grand as some of the ones Alex remembered from his childhood. He glanced around as he sipped carefully at the scotch, remembering a time when luxury like this was something to be taken for granted. Wade watched him with a little smirk. He seemed to know that Alex was thinking of by-gone days.

"I know your old man," he said, and Alex stiffened. He set the glass down and traced a line of gold in a burgundy napkin.

"Oh? Do you?"

There was a knock at the door of the suite, and it opened to a bellhop, pushing a room service cart to their table. There were covered serving dishes and he set them down, darting nervous looks at Wade as he presented the meal. "Go," Wade said, and the guy nearly ran. The door shut, and Wade attacked the steak in front of him as he continued speaking. "Yeah. I know him. Know about your family."

Alex wrinkled his brows, poked at the bloody steak. "Dad's family? What's to know? They died when he was a kid. Sad story; left him rich."

Wade grinned and shoved a forkful of meat into his mouth. "Eat. This is good food; they make it for me special—don't waste it."

Alex grimaced. "I don’t eat this much in the evening—"

"Yeah, well, tonight you do." Wade said and smiled into Alex's eyes, and Alex…shivered. Cut a sliver of dripping meat and chewed. "Good boy," Wade said. "So, yeah, your grandparents. My boss knew them pretty damn well. Knew your dad real well, too. Him and your dad, they were like—close."

Alex looked confused. "He…he never mentioned that he knew…."

"Old shit, who cares," Wade mumbled. "Anyway, they were closer than asshole and dick, and Mr. Morgan wanted to do something to help your dad, so he planned to kill your grandparents."

"Oh for—my grandparents died in a car accident in Paris. Everybody knows that. What are you trying to pull?"

Wade leaned back from the table and wiped his mouth. "Everybody knows, hunh? Yeah, everybody knows that Lionel Luthor comes from a long line of Luthors that were rich as shit and lived on the continent, and he was educated in Harvard, and whatever else fucking fairy college there is—but the facts are this, Jack—money can buy anything. Your dad's story is bunk. Your grandparents didn't die in some flash car in Paris. Shit, your grands were a pair of boozehounds, so pickled in the shit that they thought your dad was a punching bag. According to the boss, they beat him like a body bag, plus sold him to whoever had the cash to buy more booze. When your old man got tired of that, him and the boss burned the tenement down—after he'd John Hancocked a hefty life insurance policy on the old drunks."

"You're lying."

"Ask yourself—after what he did to you, and what he had done to that teacher guy, you remember—does that really seem like a stretch for the old bastard?"

"Shut the fuck up," Alex hissed, "You don’t know anything about that."

Wade laughed. "I know everything about that. I cut my teeth on stories like those, boy. Pillow talk, if you get my meaning. We're not so different as all that, are we?" He smirked at Alex's outraged look. "I'm telling you this because you should know…plus, maybe you want to keep an eye on your brother. See, we can help each other. I'm not an unreasonable man. You should get something out of this, too."

"Julian? What do you mean keep an eye on Julian? What's happening—is he safe, happy? Dad's not…hurting him, is he?" He remembered the beatings he'd gotten, but he'd been sure Dad would never hurt Julian like that. His baby brother had too much of their mother in him, and Lionel had loved his wife….

"All I meant was I know you've got no contact—the old man don't allow it. But I think maybe your brother might want to talk to you."

"You're right." Alex agreed. "My father would never allow it."

Wade smiled. "Tell you what, I'll tell Julian next time I see him, you're thinking of him."

"The next time…you see him?"

"Sure. I go with Mr. Edge to all the social functions. I watch his back. Sometimes, I see that poor kid. Hates those things. He hides in the coatrooms, you know that? Pretty kid…."

Alex felt a sharp stab in his chest. Sure, he would be. Julian was an angel.

"Yeah. Real pretty. I might have to follow him one night. Help him kill some time."

"You keep the _fuck_ away from him."

Wade shrugged. "I do what I want, but I can be convinced. You think you can convince me?"

"If I do, will you bring Julian a letter? The next time you get a chance to see him. I'll…be grateful."

"Sure you will. Now, how 'bout you show me how grateful you are?" Wade pushed back from the table, and spread his legs. "Come on."

Alex swallowed and dropped to his knees. He looked up at Wade. "You won't hurt them? Either of them? Chloe or Julian?"

Wade's face was flushed, and his voice was rough. He was already hard. "Suck me first, and I'll let you know."

Alex took a shallow breath and opened the trouser waistband. He leaned forward and, when Wade encouraged him, kissed the pale skin revealed. He'd make it good—he'd better. He reached for the first button of the fly. Each little button undone made the man breath harder, his cock twitched against the cotton revealed as Alex unbuttoned one after the other, slowly, rubbing his knuckles against the swollen length. He leaned over and tongued the cotton, and Wade hissed. "Bitch…." 

He thrust up, and Alex took the hint, pulled the wool trousers down. Wade was hard and wet, his thick cock stood up from the slit in the damp boxers. He reached out and pulled Alex's head into his lap.

Wade smelled—barely—like soap, something expensive, and even more faintly of roses. He smelled like nothing, he tasted like nothing. Alex licked into the crease of his thigh, and Wade growled, "All right, all right. Get to it."

Fine. He opened his mouth and sank down on the jerking cock; let it slide across his tongue. Wade moaned, "Okay, okay, that's—that's—" Wade shoved hard and his cock punched against the back of Alex's throat, and it took everything he had not to choke. Wade palmed the back of his head, and shoved in again. This time, Alex took the hint, and gagged, choked, and tried to pull back...because that's what Wade wanted. He was right—Wade's cock swelled in his throat, and Alex felt sick. He'd trapped himself—too smart for his own good by far. He imagined Chloe going through this and shivered. He'd rather take this—he could handle it. He was sure he could. Wade pulled him forward and fucked hard and fast, and Alex groaned and twisted, saliva wetting his chin, soaking the white cotton boxers still around Wade's waist. Alex closed his eyes and desperately hoped Wade wouldn't want anything else—hoped he wouldn't require him to be aroused. Wade groaned loudly, lifted from the chair and gripped Alex by both ears—he shoved in as far as he could go, and Alex was thankful for small favors, he wouldn’t taste anything. Wade came in hot spurts that seemed to last forever, and Alex was desperate for breath by the time Wade dropped back to the chair and let him pull away.

Wade smiled. "You're okay. You have a phone?"

Alex shook his head, his mouth and throat too raw to even attempt to speak. He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, and the sensation was almost like biting down on a gum wrapper—metallic and unpleasantly sharp.

Wade stood. "I'm gonna take a shower." He put a couple of sawbucks on the table. "Get a phone. Can’t have you standing around in the lobby waiting for my calls like some two-bit hooker. I'm driving Mr. Edge to the Metropolis Widows and Orphans Relief Ball next week. If you want, I'll take a letter to the kid. You done good."

Alex leaned back on his heels. He nodded, deliberately not touching his burning ears and scalp, and Wade chuckled. "Next time you come here, we'll see about having some real fun."

He walked out of the room and, as Alex was putting on his overcoat, the wall of muscle was back. He walked Alex to the elevator and, when the car opened to their floor, he said, "Mr. Mahaney says your time's your own until he calls."

The doors shut, and on the ride down to the lobby, Alex had plenty of time to think about how terrible a mistake he'd made.

Alex exited the car in a daze—nothing was real, nothing had substance—he was blank inside and out. He walked across the miles and miles of lobby, out the etched glass doors and into the street. The wet, the cold, the _sound,_ hit him like a slap in the face—suddenly he was overwhelmed by noise, smell, the beat of the street. The world was back, plucking at him, mocking him. Wet flakes swirled and banked, dashed about by the wind, they plastered themselves against his eyes, his mouth—he almost choked on a sudden inward gasp of air, and blinked back tears brought on the by the icy breeze.

He walked, slowly at first, and then, faster and faster—he kicked around the idea of rousting Pete out of bed, making him keep him company, he thought about calling Beebs, but he didn’t think he could stand to have this evening thrown in his face, or—his mouth twisted in a wry grin— _afford_ to. He wished he could call on Clark, but…he yanked the brim of his hat lower, pulled his collar higher. He dashed across the street, dodging through traffic and ignoring the horns and shouts. Each step sent icy slush sloshing over his shoes, soaking his cuffs.

He stopped on the curb, considering a cab and going…somewhere, anywhere…he shrugged, and kept walking. Maybe there was a silver lining in this damn cloud. If Wade was telling the truth, he'd finally be able to safely talk to Jules. That alone almost made this thing…worthwhile. His tongue searched out the rawness inside his mouth. Worthwhile, yes. The last time he'd spoken to Jules, it'd been a hurried few words and a hug on the steps of his school, hoping that Lionel or one of his men weren't watching. A barbed thought slithered through his mind…what if…what if the kid didn’t want anything to do with him anymore? Alex stopped under an awning, automatically searched his pockets for his cigarettes.

What if Lionel had turned Jules against him? Hell, the old bastard excelled at turning people against each other. There was something in Dad that loved searching out what made him happy, whatever was pure and decent in his life and pruning it, twisting it until it was deformed or it died. That twisted son of a bitch would probably like nothing better than to pit his brother against him—destroy any hope of love. Hell, it wouldn't be the first time he'd done it. And if he showed any kind of weakness, it wouldn't be the last.

He flipped the butt into the street and walked slowly back to his apartment.

@@@

He bathed, and brushed his teeth, drank a little brandy. Walked around the apartment, drank a little more brandy. He turned on the radio, and listened to music, drank more brandy…' _Where or When'_ was playing, and he threw himself down on the little couch, long legs splayed over the arm. He sipped from the bottle, and laughed to himself. Sure, sure, that was just what he needed, a reminder of why he was here, alone and…and…the song segued into _'East of The Sun',_ cranked out by one of those sweet bands… .

 _"Up among the stars we'll find…a harmony of life, to a lovely tune…east of the sun and west of the moon, dear…east of the sun and west of the moon…"_ He sang quietly to himself, by the end of the song, he was feeling comfortably numb, and decided it hadn't been a bad arrangement really, and more brandy helped to make it even better. Funny, he thought—it doesn't taste like anything anymore. He gulped down the warm tasteless liquor, swore that in the morning, he'd put this all behind him. Clark, Chloe, Jules…he'd be just what he should be again. Calm, collected…a Luthor.

By the time he fell asleep, the bottle was empty and the radio was silent.

@@@

Clark wandered around his little room, walking from the window to the door and back, feeling…strange. He'd gone along with Walt to take Chloe to the train station, and right before she'd boarded, they'd hugged and she kissed him. It was…quite a kiss. Not at all like the kiss that he he'd had with Lana. It was…he shook his head. It was good, of course it was good. And Chloe _tasted_ good, like spearmint, and coffee…he smiled. Chloe really was a java fiend. And a real peach too, cute, tiny—but strong, he liked that. She was small in his arms, but she didn't feel like porcelain, not like Lana….his mind veered away from the thought, back to Chloe and her beautiful eyes, so full of excitement and life, the way they sparkled like sunlight on Elbow River, like….

"Oh God." He threw himself on the little bed and it rattled wildly, trying to hold his weight. Oh God. Why did he keep going back to Smallville? And not even really to Smallville—Whit, that's who'd been on his mind at the station, and the cab ride home and…maybe he was thinking of him because of this evening…Walt had shocked him good earlier. Alex was queer? How in the heck could he _not_ notice that? Everyone else knew. He was just stupid, that's what it was. He couldn’t tell Whit was that way, or Reggie…and hadn't seen that Alex was that way. Every time he thought he had a friend, they ended up being homosexual. Pansies. Fairies…whatever they called it.

Alex…Chloe…it was all confusing. For a while, he'd thought they were stuck on each other. They were always kissing and hugging, and she was always really close to him. Too close not to be an item, but as he was learning, the city was a different world. Even though she was sort of his girlfriend, she still kissed and hung off of Alex, and Walt and Pete and…the city really was different.

He sat up quickly, attention focused outside of himself. Was that a yell for…no, just some kids playing around…He lay back down and closed his eyes. He saw Alex smiling, joking with Chloe, his arm around Pete…his arm around Pete. Pete! Oh! He felt like he'd jumped into an ice-cold bath. Alex and _Pete._ It made sense now, of course Alex didn’t have any interest in Chloe at all—it was Pete he liked. Clark exhaled a long breath.

"Alex." Clark smiled. He was so smart. He was smart enough to look past the outside, see what really counted. Of course, being a colored man was a pretty damn long shot from not being human, but…if Alex could be friends, more than friends with Pete, maybe he'd be as pleased as Reggie had been to know about his abilities. It would be so nice to have someone who knew, who wouldn’t be afraid, or sickened. Alex seemed like someone a guy could take a chance with.

 

He lay back in his bed, arms behind his head, yawning—truly tired for the first time in days. Gable smiled down on him from his picture frame. He agreed with Clark. Oh yes, Alex definitely was a fine fellow, a real gentleman, and had Clark noticed, he had eyes bluer than Chloe's and the sweetest curve to his mouth…he had a little scar and Gable wondered if it felt different then the pink swell of his lip…don't you want to touch, to know… Clark smiled in his sleep and squeezed his pillow, drifted deeper into his dreams.

@@@

_BANG BANG_ "Hey, open up!" _BANG BANG_ "Open the door!"

Alex snorted, rolled off the couch and fell to the carpet. "What the fuck…what am I doing on the couch?" he muttered to himself.

"Alex! Let me in!"

"Who the fuck…Walt? Walt, what the hell…" Alex's head was pounding, and he was less than happy to be awake, and every damn memory was bright and sharp and hard as diamonds—"God damn it, Walt!"

"I got you something," Walt crooned in a wheedling tone, and if he could hear Walt banging and whining at the door, than the whole building must hear him—what time was it? He glanced down at the gold face of his watch. It was three in the morning and…and Walt was drunk? Walt didn't drink…

"Alex, I'm telling you…got you a preeeesent."

Alex stumbled over to the door and leaned against it for a moment. "It better have a prick attached to it," he growled, and unlocked the door. "I was down for the count, Gee. This better be good." He opened the door, about to yell at Walt for being _drunk,_ for God's sake, and yelling in his hallway…he took one look at Walt's broken expression, and pulled him inside. "Jesus, Cook—what in the world is _wrong?"_

"I…I should know better than to…Alex, how are _you?_ Are you okay?"

He looked like a comic picture of upset, his mouth working and eyes red and watery. Alex threw an arm around his shoulder. "Hey, hey, no skin, babe. We talked, that's all." The welts running down his head and neck were faint enough that he was certain Walt wouldn't see. He was pretty certain Walt wasn't seeing much, pickled as he was.

Walt sighed, a deep shaky sigh and leaned into Alex. "Oh, that's—that's good. Chloe's gone. Dropped C.C. off and stopped to have a drink—ah. Maybe more than one."

Alex sighed. "Walt, you know you can't drink…and why don't you just speak to Chloe? She's not a shrinking violet—she'll tell you what's on her mind. I admit, Clark's stiff competition all right…"

"Oh Alex, Alex…does it make you sad…?" Walt ran his hands over Alex's face, pressed them around his cheeks. His eyes blearily searched Alex's, and his whisky-scented breath washed over him. No matter how far Alex leaned away, Walt followed, like a puppet on strings. "He's like…like your whazzit, your Shangri-la or something, ain't he? Like your dream guy…stinks, old man, love stinks. I know…Clark. Fuck him…Chloe."

Alex managed to peel Walt off, and then, not knowing what else to do, cracked open the bottle Walt waved at him, his 'present'.

He and Walt got drunk. Drunker. Alex talked about Clark, how sexy he was, how much he wanted to just…touch him, his hands, his face….and Walt told him that he thought Chloe was a nightingale, the Mona Lisa, the hottest dame ever, from the first moment he'd seen her, he'd fallen head over heels in love. He broke a little, and Alex patted him awkwardly on the shoulder, and that was all it took for Walt to break completely. Alex ended up holding him as he soaked his shirt and babbled his love for Chloe. He pulled his suspenders out, up and down, climbed into Alex's lap and told Alex he loved him like crazy and he wished he was gay too, because he could fall for him like a ton of bricks if it wasn't for that cock thing but…he hiccupped a few times and gently, quietly passed out.

Alex took his shoes off, dragged him into the bedroom, and tipped him into the bed. He eased him flat; stroked sweat dampened hair from his forehead, and said, "Yeah, I love you too." And smiled wider and wider, and with a wicked laugh, began to undress him. He scattered the clothes across the rug, searched through his own pockets before finding what he wanted. Smirking evilly, he placed the tin of rubbers just so on Walt's lap, and hoped he wouldn’t move much in his sleep.

He left the apartment feeling pretty damned pleased with himself.

@@@

Walt woke up with a start, blinking wildly—his arm shot out from under the bedcovers and flailed around over the night stand, looking for something—

"Here." Alex threw a pack of Chesterfields at him.

"God damn it, why are you—how did you—give me the matches too." Walt grabbed the match box out of the air, "Try not aiming at my head—" and lit up gratefully. "Ah…you know, sitting in my room while I'm sleeping—s'creepy. Like waking up to Dracula—why are you here?" 

Walt stopped in mid-sentence, looked around the room—his eyes growing larger and larger—he choked in a mouth full of smoke when he realized the bed he was in was Alex's. He gasped, and coughed, but managed to hang onto the butt. "God damn, Alex…what did I do?" He ground out the cigarette and knuckled his eyes. "Shit. My conk feels like it's full of rocks. Why'd you let me drink?"

Alex leaned back in his chair, and waited.

"This isn't—this is your place. Wow—how drunk did we get—" He looked down at himself, pulled up the sheet and looked. "I—I'm—I didn't—did we—you bastard."

Alex burst out laughing. "What? Feeling a little sore?" he teased and Walt rolled his eyes, held up the tin of rubbers and pitched it at Alex.

"You only wish," Walt growled. "Hah—do I at least get breakfast?" He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and grimaced when Alex grinned, a slow, lascivious smile that made Walt roll his eyes. "Fuck—I should move into your place—the bed's nicer than mine—" He drank the coffee Alex handed him and made a face.

Alex tossed grease spotted brown bag to Walt. "Donuts. Don’t ever think I only love you for your body."

Walt grinned and dug into the pastries. "Yeah," he said around a mouthful "Listen—sorry for muscling in on you last night—I'm—a sap, I know. I was afraid for you, no foolin'. That Wade's a flat out crazy mug—junk yard dog crazy, you dig? Whatever you said— won't work—for long. He's got glims on Chloe, and his mitts are itchin'—we gotta keep her out of his way." He sighed and put the bag down. "This is—I'm telling you—it's not good, Alex. Not good at all. He's Edge's personal button man—he's poison."

"I can guarantee you, Walt, that I'm very well aware of the problem he poses." Alex blew out a sharp breath and rested his feet on the edge of the bed. "Don't sweat, buddy-boy. I'm not about to get in dutch with that guy."

 

Walt stood. "Yeah." He pulled the top sheet loose and wrapped it around his waist. "I hope—" He shook his head. "Keep your eyes off my ass; I'm going to take a shower."

"Can I come in and help you drop the soap?"

"For the love of Mike—tell me _why_ I don't fire you?" Walt laughed.

@@@

_Songs this section:_  
[East Of The Sun, West Of The Moon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2NfgINK8fDg)  
Lyrics by Brooks Bowman 


	7. Chapter 7

When Walt returned to the room, he found Alex spread over the bed, jotting down notes in a leather and gold-chased journal and tapping out a rhythm on his thigh.

Walt brushed his hair, kept his eyes on the dresser mirror, and nodded along. "Say, Pete claims the arrangement of Tuxedo Junction's too slow—slow, did he mean that—I mean, it's not a—say, where are my pants?"

He was doing up the dozen buttons on the union suit he wore and frowning at the clothes Alex had dumped on the end of the bed. Alex sneered at him. "You dress like an old man. Why don't you let me take you to my tailor?"

"First off—your tailor hates you 'cause you stiff him all the time—second, icing this here gorgeous hunk of a man with drapes like yours would be a waste of time. The dames know I'm hot. What else do I need?" Walt retorted. He slid his suspenders up over his shoulders and sighed. "Hey, I'm not kidding when it comes to that guy, Alex. You need to avoid him."

"I heard you the first time. We dealt with Mort. We can deal with Morgan's puppy."

Walt lit a cigarette. "Sure we can. Sure we can." He drew in deep and then blew the smoke towards the ceiling. He clambered over Alex on the bed and opened the window. Sounds of traffic nearly, but not quite, drowned out the twitter of the birds on the rooftops. "Here, take the rest." He inhaled again and bent over Alex, mouth open just a bit, smoke curling lazily around his lips, teasing. Alex's own inhalation had a sharper edge and he grabbed Walt's hand, sliding the cigarette out of his fingers to place it in his own smirking mouth.

"Don't play so much, Walt. You might get yourself in trouble one day."

Walt grinned, rolling off the bed to slide his suit coat on. "Nah, you ain't looking for me in here. Maybe you can get that other kid in your bed someday, hunh? You'd give him some trouble, I bet—" His grin slowly faded at the look in Alex's eyes. "Oh. I'm—I'm sorry, I guess—'m kinda stupid sometime. Sorry."

"Don't think about it, buddy boy." Alex hesitated, smiled wryly, and shrugged. "C'est la vie. I'll see you tonight."

@@@

Two days until Christmas, Clark thought, glancing at the calendar. He wiped clammy hands across his face. His shirt and jacket were stiff with frozen snow and his boots were soaking wet. He'd have to let the clothes dry on a towel. He didn't want to hang them with his suit, get it wet. He still owed Walt some for the suit, even though Walt kept trying to tell him he didn't, but that wasn't the way they—he—did things. He'd pay him back soon—every penny. Walt was a heck of a nice guy—as long as they weren't working, Clark grinned. Alex was trying to get him to go to his tailor, have a suit made and, as soon as Clark could afford it, he would. He had twenty-five dollars saved for it and a new pair of shoes. He smiled at the thought. If he owned two suits, it'd be one more than his dad had. Imagine that—two suits, two pairs of dress shoes…and ties. Chloe kept buying him ties for some reason. Every time she came around with a new one, Alex laughed like it was some secret joke that only he got. Clark shook his head. Alex was a confusing guy.  


Clark stacked a library book under his notebook to sit at the table and then unwrapped the sandwich Willy insisted he take when he dropped by the kitchen to say hello. Sandwich in one hand, and pencil in the other, he scribbled in his diary/letter book. The pages were filling up with unsent letters to Hannah. Almost every day, he had something new to tell her. Tonight, he wrote about the dip crazy enough to try something in Metropolis. Most of them knew plying their art here was a chump's game anymore, with 'The Angel' looking out. He sighed. He wished the junkies and the thugs and the people who got a horrible delight out of hurting innocents were as easy to chase away. At least he'd been able to do something positive tonight—he'd been able to help some kids he'd found living in a closed-up warehouse near Suicide Slums. He'd gotten them food and pointed them in the direction of St. Pat's, where there was a shelter. It wasn't much, and it hurt him that he couldn't do more… _"but I guess it's better to do a little than nothing at all. Someday, I will do more. I promise myself all the time, that someday I'll find a way to do more, to help more people._

_It's a few days before Christmas, Hannah, and I thought that I'd be sad, being away from home and all, and it makes me feel bad to say it, but I'm not. I mean not too much. I miss you like crazy, of course, but my friends here have made it like home. It's so nice to have friends, people who look happy when you walk into the room. Yes, that's right, I'm a star. (smile) Oh, I wish you could meet my friends. They're all solid hepcats. That's what Pete says. Not me. Whenever I try to sling the lingo, everyone just laughs. I guess I just have corn in my blood. (smile)_

_My friend Pete I mentioned, he's a real hepcat. He's a really nice guy, and his family is, too. They've invited me a few times to go to church with them and I might do that one day. I do miss those sorts of family things. Pete has a little sister who kind of reminds me of you, only she's twelve, not twelve going on ninety."_

Clark put down the pencil and attacked the sandwich. Willy made good sandwiches. He rearranged his wet clothes on a fresh dry towel and finished his sandwich, leaning on the wide windowsill and ignoring the brisk breeze. He cast out with all his senses over his city, listening for anything out of the ordinary. It was quiet for now, but soon the sky would lighten and the early morning workers would be out—milkmen, cops changing shifts, and the newsies grabbing up papers to hawk. And he'd be napping, or walking, or just thinking…wondering what his friends were doing, what his family was doing.

Maybe he'd give his girl a call, or go to the show. The Roxy had that new Cagney….

He checked his change jar. He had more than enough, but suddenly, neither thought appealed overmuch. He glanced at his notebook, thought about writing some more. Not now, he decided. He lay down on the bed and wrapped himself in his blanket. He closed his eyes and slowed himself down…time to sleep. Maybe...he'd have a dream about home. That would be nice….

_What was he doing here? He glanced around, startled—he was on the banks of a river. He knew this place—it was Elbow River. The last time he'd been to the river was in summer, but this wasn't summer. The trees were bare, the grass was brown and he was dressed in overalls and a red barn jacket. He was sitting on the branch, the thick one that hung out over the river, and that worried him. He remembered the last time…he'd been with Whit, and he was really less than pleased to be here again. Maybe he should leave…he heard someone call his name and reluctantly turned…._

_Suddenly, it was darn good to be right where he was. He smiled, and felt warm from head to toe. 'Hi, hi, you found me. Come over and sit by me.'_

_Alex sat. He was fully dressed also, in a suit and hat, his overcoat folded neatly over his arm and a silky white scarf around his neck. He leaned back to look up at the moon and Clark stared at the ivory arch of his neck. He wanted to touch it so very much, so much. An owl flew overhead, its shadow swept over the moon and was gone…the river chattered and splashed below them… Alex sighed. 'Don’t push me in—it's too cold.'_

_'Oh, I wouldn't. I would never push you in.'_

_Alex smiled and said, 'Hmm. But would you pull me in?' He reached over and drew his finger up Clark's leg, swirling invisible designs higher and higher up his leg, drawing up over the growing bulge between his…._

Clark groaned, gasped awake and blinked. Something was burning…the oilcloth cover that covered his little table was smoking, and twin holes glowed in it. Clark was so startled his eyes flew wide—and the cloth was stippled with tiny flames, thin coils of smoke blooming all over it.

"SHIT!"

He jumped out of bed and smothered the growing flames with his hands, fighting to keep his eyes closed because the fire was definitely coming from his eyes….he peeked carefully into his cupped hands, and when nothing happened, eased his eyes open again. They felt fine. Normal. He slumped to the floor, legs splayed wide and hands locked together in his lap like a little kid, and thought life could hardly get more complicated. What if someone had seen that? What _was_ that? Just another thing to add to his list of freakish accomplishments—fiery eyeballs?

And suddenly, a deep wave of dread struck him. "Oh." Oh my. He'd been thinking, dreaming about Alex…and what he'd been dreaming about paled at the thought that feeling _sexy_ had made his eyes spit flames. "Oh no, that can't—that's just not _fair"!_ He staggered to his feet. "Oh please—I wanted to have sex at least once in my life," he moaned. What good would it do to find love and then not be able to—not ever have—Mom was _wrong._

"There's no one for me here, not ever going to be." His eyes filled with tears, plain old human-style tears, a little warm, wet…normal. He couldn’t be alone for the rest of his life, he just couldn't. But he could be...careful. He could hold back. Maybe he could just do everything but kiss. Or have sex. He sighed. Especially that. He sighed even harder. Would Chloe still care when there were no more kisses?

@@@

_…I have a girlfriend. Her name is Chloe. She likes me a lot, she says. She's really pretty, blonde and tiny, and boy—she's got a big temper! But she's funny too. She makes me laugh hard enough to hurt. Some day, you're going to meet her and when you do, you'll see, she's great. There's another friend I have. He's really amazing, this guy is so talented. You would be bowled over, I know it. He plays clarinet, and he plays from his heart. He's every bit as good, maybe better, than Benny Goodman. He's really something else. He's as hip as I'm not. (laugh) but he's nice to me anyway._

He wrote more about Alex, humming to himself, and after a while, he realized he was humming carols. He stopped writing and stared at his notebook for quite a while, before finally deciding the time was right. He ripped a page out of the book, and wrote.

_Dear Hannah,_

_Merry Christmas. I don't have a lot of money, but I hope this letter will count as a Christmas present. I'm fine, I'm safe, and I'm happy…._

@@@

Clark replaced the oilcloth twice, and had to paint the wall opposite his bed once before he decided wishing was just not going to make it go away. What disturbed him most was the new direction his dreams were taking. He was fairly certain the next time he'd set his tablecloth on fire, he'd been dreaming about Chloe…his brow wrinkled. Pretty sure. There'd been a lot of skin and blonde hair. And kissing. There was that time he'd dreamed about Pete. Clark blushed. That ended up with a smoke-filled room, a burning tablecloth, and washing his underwear in the bathroom sink. Then there was the dream he had about Alex, full of mysterious things, heat and mouths and hands, sweat and teeth...that time, waking up had hurt, and coming in his boxers hurt so good, and burning twin tracks of black up the wall, shaking the bed and crying had…well, not hurt, but made him almost die of embarrassment. Clark covered his face. His cheeks were burning and his eyes felt like they were full of hot, gritty sand. He knew how wonderfully cooler they'd be, how refreshed they'd feel if he let the flame go like it wanted to.

That was just what he should do. He needed to learn to control himself. Or, no—what he needed to learn was control of this new ability. Because it wasn't anything to be ashamed of, nosiree, no more than blinking or…burping was. Or…or…other stuff. It was part of him, so he'd learn to control it and who knows—it might even be useful. He thought of grilling sausages on a stick, and the silliness of the image surprised a laugh out of him. Yep. Very useful.

He was standing deep in the grasslands that lie between Metropolis and the countryside, an area he'd carefully scouted beforehand to be certain it was out of sight of any roads or train tracks. In a shallow depression, a slight dip in the grassy fields, he'd driven a series of tall sticks into the ground—targets. "All right," he told himself. "The object of this exercise is not to blow up the sticks. Just…set them afire, like matches. Okay? First try…." he muttered. Stared at the first stick. Stared and stared until he began to feel silly. "Okay, eyeballs, any time now…ooh."

He'd forgotten a crucial ingredient of fire sight. He blushed a little and thought of Chloe. Pretty smile, bright eyes, wonderful figure…nice. Nice balcony…chest. Tits. He closed his eyes and imagined touching them, squeezing them…kissing his girlfriend, rubbing her, licking her neck…working his way downwards until he was between his legs—"Ow!" His eyes felt like someone threw a huge handful of burning sand into them. He thought again about Chloe and the gritty feeling lessened, and so did the tightness below his belt. Clark sighed, dropped his hands and tilted his head back heavenward.

"Okay, for Pete's sake. I give." He tilted his head at one of the stakes, and whispered, "Alex", imagined pressing lips to the edge of his smooth jaw, maybe, moving higher, kissing his ear. Clark dropped his hands down to the tightness growing in his pants. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about the fact that he was standing in an open field. He imagined that the fingers sliding into his waistband were Alex's….Oh, God. He opened his eyes and, with a thunderous crack, the stake burst into flame, pieces of it blowing high into the sky, burning bits of wood tumbled over and over in the air before dropping to the ground like flaming hail….Oh. Man. He had his work cut out for him.

Hours and piles of charred kindling later, Clark was finally satisfied that he had a handle on his new ability. He didn't need to actually…get stiff, or think about getting stiff. He concentrated on his eyes, bringing up just the sensation of heat in them, and the top of a stake popped and neatly burned. He grinned and his eyes felt cooler, the heat disappeared.

He was ready, now, for the final test. He stared across the empty field; eyes locked on some place in his mind, some place where Alex was interested in him—cared about him. Was touching him, the hand opening his fly was Alex's, the hand around his cock teasing and stroking him was Alex's. Clark bit his lip, stared at the horizon, his eyes were warm, but it was just part of it, the urgency wasn't there, it was lower, much lower. He was shuddering now, beyond the point of stopping…he tightened all over, a desperate moan, a blurted name, and he was coming hard, semen spurting, dripping from his cock and down into the grass….

He trembled all over, but never closed his eyes once...and set nothing on fire. He felt—triumphant. And embarrassed.

He quickly did up his pants, wiped his hand on the inside of his shirt and scuffed dirt over the thick fluid gleaming in the grass. He took a deep, shaky breath and, suddenly, felt a little sad. He couldn't hide from himself anymore. It was no use pretending that not being human was all that defined him.

He debated talking to Chloe. She seemed to know a lot about a lot of things. The problem was she also—almost, kind of—his girlfriend. They'd been courting, in a round-about way. Kissing. Holding hands. She might be mad about this. Talking to her about it sure was asking a lot of her. And, Clark mused, it just might be dangerous. Hell, she _was_ going to be mad, no might about it. Maybe…maybe he shouldn't say anything.

@@@

Despite his late night, Alex was finding it hard to fall sleep. He was exasperated, exhausted and miserable. He tossed and turned, and finally gave up on the notion of sleep all together.

He stared at the moon-pale face glaring back at him from the mirror—the lilac shadows under his eyes did little to improve the sight. He ran a tub as he brushed his teeth, humming into the foam. By the time he rinsed, spit, and stripped, the tub was full.

Sliding into the hot water, letting it lap against his chest, and easing down until he was nose deep in the steaming, milky water…it was almost heaven. He hissed at a sudden sharp sting of pain—there were teeth marks under the curve of his jaw that really hurt. He was damn grateful it hadn't gone farther than that, though why it had to be so damn visible…. Thank God, Wade had received a message to go to Edge before things really heated up. Alex sighed in relief and sank lower in the tub. It had been odd in a way, the visit. Mahaney brought him a card from Jules…Alex smiled. Jules had been very pleased to hear from him, more than ready to communicate with him behind Lionel's back. It was a kindness he hadn’t expected, Wade making a special trip just to bring him the card. He closed his eyes and snorted. Kindness…no doubt he'd soon find out what was behind that particular kindness.

 

He got out and dried, and worked on putting a decent polish on his shoes, fretted over the thinning soles. It might be time to see about releasing some of the inheritance money he put away. His salary took care of the basics, but a man just had to have a decent pair of shoes. While he was at it, he'd take some out to buy Clark shoes, too. He'd need his custom-made of course, same as Alex's. How he'd get the big palooka to go along with it, he didn't know. But it would make him feel more—alive, if Clark would let him do just that tiny bit for him, just that much.

After making sure he looked clean and collected, he grabbed his hat and coat and made his way out into the morning sun. It was not an improvement, he decided, and was about to go back to his rooms and medicate himself into sleep when he caught sight of Clark outside of the small bakery he frequented. He was surprised to see Clark there. He'd never seen him outside of the hotel or the club before. The sun loved him, made his eyes gleam like emeralds. He was captured again by those incredible, beautiful eyes….

He watched the boy talking to the owner. Clark seemed to enjoy talking to people, he seemed to like people, to care what they thought, how they felt. That was odd. Most people as beautiful as Clark learned at an early age they needn't bother to think about anyone else, do anything; the world would be handed to them on a silver platter simply because they were beautiful. Clark always appeared surprised that people liked him. He seemed sweet and kind and honest. Worthwhile.

Clark turned to him and, for a moment, that brilliant smile faltered, and Alex remembered. _Right. I'm the scary pansy._ He started to walk away, but turned back. Fuck that. He was Alexander J….J. Roth, damn it. He didn’t run from anyone. He straightened and walked toward Clark with as big a smile as he could manage. "Clark." The kid looked at him, then blushed, dropped his lashes. Alex bit the inside of his cheek and prayed for strength.

"Oh, Alex, oh. How are you?"

_Queer._ "Fine, Clark. You? "

"I'm…I'm okay. Hungry." Clark laughed, and then it seemed to spiral out of control and he clamped his mouth closed on an embarrassed giggle. "I was just going to, um. Get some breakfast. You know."

"Isn't that a coincidence? I was just going to breakfast myself," Alex said.

Clark nodded, "They serve breakfast here. I was going to—" He blushed so hard that his ears glowed red, his face was flushed like…Alex bit the tip of his tongue and wondered if he was going to have to chew up the entire inside of his mouth.

"Yes?" Alex asked.

"Nothing. I'll just, um—grab some rolls and—"

Alex shook his head. "Nope. Nothing doing. I know just the place for breakfast—you're going to love it." He shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets, actually a little grateful for the cold keeping him in check.

Clark smiled, a wide, white gleam, and Alex thought maybe he should take his coat off…hat off….man, it got hot all of a sudden….

"Do they have pie there?" Clark asked.

"Pie?" Alex laughed. "Sure, why not?"

@@@

The place was a little café run by an ex-royal or so she claimed to be, some kind of royalty from Hungary, she maintained, and Alex was fine with that. She could be whatever she wanted to be. Her pastry chef was excellent, and they knew how to make a decent cup of coffee.

Clark was beaming at the swags of fresh-cut pine, the old world style decorations. In one corner, a little tree sat on a table, topped by a gleaming tin star. "It smells nice in here," Clark said, and Alex agreed with him. Old wood, cinnamon, oranges, and pine…those were the smells of Christmas for Alex. His mother and Jules and he used to shop for gifts, for oranges and peppermints, traditional Christmas treats, and after the boys would get cocoa and his mother would get coffee, and the driver would collect their packages…in the days when everything was simpler….

The owner bustled up with menus for them. "Alexander, darling. Today we have an excellent strudel. Apple. It's very good." She stopped and smiled at Clark. "Would you like coffee, young man, or cocoa?"

Clark glanced at Alex quickly and ordered coffee, and Alex had the feeling Clark only did it because it seemed the grown-up thing to do. He stopped the owner, and said, "Please, two coffees—and lots of whipped cream on one.

She nodded, "A regular and…." She looked at Clark thoughtfully, tapped one of her chins. "Extra sugar, cream, and whipped cream on top. Shaved chocolate." She twinkled at him and swept off.

"We didn’t order anything to eat," he said, and Alex smiled.

"Don't worry. She'll bring just the right thing for you."

Clark looked doubtful and opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it and was silent. Alex waited to see if Clark would speak, and when the younger man just kept staring at the table top, Alex spoke instead. "Looks like you've got something on your mind, Clark. Does it have anything to do with Chloe?"

Clark darted a quick look at Alex and, after a moment, nodded reluctantly. "Yes. I like her, but I've…never had a girlfriend before. I don’t know what to do—who to ask. You seem….like you wouldn't mind talking to me. I hope I didn't presume."

"Oh, no. I don't mind. She's a good friend of mine. A virgin, Lord have mercy, a regular mystical unicorn. So Clark, are you telling me you've never had a steady?" he teased. Clark clouded up.

"Yes…no. Sort of," he stuttered, and he looked terribly…sad just didn't seem quite the right word. Alex didn’t push Clark. Whatever had happened had obviously been far from pleasant, and that was something he was all too familiar with on his own account. He felt sympathetic toward the kid. He only hoped it hadn't been anything near as lousy as his experience.

"Okay, you want to know what to say, how to act—where to go on a date? I can do that. I've dated a girl or two, before I decided it was a waste of time for me and the frail—girl—" Alex caught Clark's look of surprise. It hurt that he looked uncomfortable, but Alex figured he couldn't blame Clark. It was his own fault for bringing the subject up. "Say, if it bothers you that I'm queer—I mean ho—"

Clark snapped, "I know what queer means." He glared at Alex for a long moment before dropping his eyes. "I don’t care. I'm sorry," he apologized. He looked up at Alex again and said, "I really don’t care. It's just…people think I'm stupid or something. They see me and think because I'm tall and strong and quiet, I must be some kind of brainless palooka. I'm not experienced, Mr. Roth, but that doesn't make me naïve. Okay?"

"I'm really very sorry, Clark. You're right. Maybe I did underestimate your intelligence— _slightly—_ but I promise you, I never will again. Please, I'd like to be your friend. Can we dispense with Mr. Roth? Can I just be Alex again?" Alex smiled, and his heart hurt like mad when Clark smiled at him. It felt just like being hit with a sledgehammer every damn time. He'd never been jealous of a woman before in his life, but just this once, he was green-eyed crazy because of Chloe.

Their pastry came at the right moment, saving him from making a complete ass of himself.

"Here you go, Mr. Alex. Enjoy. Your young man will enjoy the strudel, I think."

"Ah, thank you…he's not my…he's a friend."

The smile she gave him was condescending in the extreme. "Yes, I know. You like it, honey?" she asked Clark.

Clark nodded, cheeks bright-red, but when he looked at Alex, his eyes were sparkling with laughter. "I do," he declared. "Thanks for bringing me," he told Alex and then winked.

Was it possible to fall in love over and over and over?

They strolled together back to Clark's boarding house, and Alex was surprised how comfortable they were together, and wondered how he could have thought Clark felt uneasy around him, so when Clark asked him up, he hesitated, but just a moment, before saying yes. He was surprised again when Clark unlocked his door and ushered Alex in. Clark was nothing at all like the mental picture he'd built of him—as Clark himself had pointed out.

The little room was not what he'd expected, not at all the room of a guy barely graduated out of his teen age years. What he had expected was piles of filthy clothes, and food turning to cement on dirty plates, but it was neat as a pin, everything in its spotless place. The single window was open a crack, and room was a little cool. There was a slight scent of cinnamon and a hint of another smell he couldn’t identify but put him in mind of a summer day. The kid had done his best—there were a few colorful magazine covers pinned to the wall, Gable, Cooper, Dietrich…a table stood against the wall opposite his bed, flanked by mismatched chairs, and a bright cloth covered the scarred table top. He hadn't seen Clark as a smoker, but there were a few cigarette burns in the cloth…maybe he'd buy him a new one.

Clark was pulling a chair out for him, and reaching for his coat so Alex gave it with a smile. 

"Tea?" Clark asked and he positively beamed when Alex said yes. From a tiny cupboard the hot plate sat on, he brought out a couple of bright mugs. "The Odeon over on 54th street gives them out at matinees. It's mostly me and a bunch of housewives," he laughed. "I don’t mind, in fact, it's kind of fun— they're all real nice to me." Alex nodded, suddenly livid with jealousy of a bunch of women in aprons and pincurls.

Clark brought the mugs filled with hot water to the table, with teabags in each, and set a small plate piled neatly with sugar cubes in front of him. Jealousy melted—Clark was treating him like a special guest. It shouldn't make him so pleased, but it did. Clark bent to get a little box of cookies from the bottom of the cupboard and that shouldn't make him hard…but it did.

In an effort to shift his attention upward Alex said, "So…tell me a little about yourself. I think today is the first day it's just been you and me together."

Clark smiled a little. "But you know everything about me that's important to know. I came from a little farming town, my folks were dairy farmers. Umm, I have a younger sister—"

"I have a younger brother."

"Really?" Clark looked pleased. "It's great being a big brother, isn’t it? I'm just…sorry I couldn’t stay home."

"Did you get into some trouble?" Alex asked, and immediately apologized. "None of my business, sorry."

"No…it's okay. I don't mind telling you what happened. I had some trouble involving school. Classmates. I thought it would be better for everyone if I left town."

Alex studied the man across from him. He'd know damn well that Clark wasn't twenty as he'd claimed the first time they'd met, but the kid was even younger than he'd guessed. Left town… somehow, Alex couldn’t picture Clark being so troublesome he'd have to leave his home.

Clark swallowed and grimaced at his tea, added more sugar. He continued speaking. "It started with a guy." Alex tried to hide his flinch of surprise at Clark's words. "This guy…he liked me." He glanced at Alex and widened his eyes significantly. "Liked me, liked me. And he got caught being…grabby with me, and then acted like it was my fault, like I'd grabbed _him_ instead. Because he was afraid of being found out, I got tarred with his brush." He looked sad, but Alex could see some anger there, too.

Alex grimaced. "Well, Clark…it can be hard to live this way, surrounded by people who'd like nothing better than to see you dead. Not everyone is brave enough to live what they really are, Clark. Not everyone is brave enough to stand up to the world." Clark glanced at him, a bitter, knowing expression on his face and Alex shook his head. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not absolving your friend of wrong-doing; I'm just saying…it's hard."

Clark nodded. "He told me he did it because I was braver than he was, stronger—that I could handle it. And I could have, Alex, I could…but not my little sister. She didn’t deserve to be treated like trash because of me."

Alex groaned inwardly. People were horrible, mindless animals—taking their hatred out on an innocent kid? Sometimes, he hated human beings.

Clark rolled his cup between his palms and said, "The thing was…I did like him. He was a good friend, and that was something I'd never had before. I'm still sorry it turned out the way it did. I would have stayed his friend, you know."

Alex nodded, Clark's words opening a huge, knife edged hole in his chest. He wished…to find this 'friend' and kill him. Make him feel all of what he put Clark through. Looking at the pained expression on the boy's beautiful face, it was obvious whatever had happened to Clark was probably worse than he was admitting to. Alex was entirely too familiar with that kind of hurt, carrying pain that couldn’t be shared, ever….

"You're a good man, Clark, and that guy was a skunk, a louse and a coward. You were the decent guy there, willing to be his friend even though you didn’t share his feelings."

Clark put his cup down, raised his head and looked right into Alex's eyes. "I didn’t say that."

Alex felt like he'd stepped off a cliff and was dropping through air like a cartoon character...Clark went on, "He never gave me a chance. Never asked what I really felt."

Alex tried to speak, but his mouth was dry as cotton. He nodded and desperately drank tea.

"So, when I asked you about Chloe," Clark said, "I guess what I really wanted to ask you about was being gay. That's the word, right?"

"It's…" Alex's throat seized up again, and his voice was a dry rattle. "It's one of them, yeah…"

"So, maybe you and Pete can explain it to me?"

"Pete? Pete…I…suppose." How did Pete fit into this, Alex wondered? "Hey, listen, Clark, I have to split, but I promise we'll talk about all of—of this. Real soon."

"Oh! All right…tomorrow's Christmas, I guess I'll see you the day after—at rehearsal, right?"

"I—sure. Of course." Clark looked a little less animated at the lack-luster response and Alex glanced away, feeling like a crumb.

At the door he held his hand out to Clark. "Thanks for coming to breakfast with me and the tea and…thanks." Clark smiled and his hand over Alex's was big, the palm so soft, it was hard to believe he ever worked and lived on a farm. Suddenly he was aware he'd been stroking his thumb over and over Clark's hand. He jerked a little and Clark's hand tightened for a second and his eyes looked deep and dark. Alex opened his mouth to say something, anything to defuse the moment. Clark's eyes were on his mouth, and he looked confused, nervous. In the second it took Alex to blink, he felt warm breath skate his lips, heard himself mutter, "Oh god." And he wasn't sure if it was prayer or a plea for Clark not to come to his senses. Shit. Alex felt his heart stop, stutter. He'd lost his mind; he'd finally gone barking nuts. His lips were barely touching the kids but they were touching. That made it a kiss, no matter how you sliced it. He felt a chill on his mouth as Clark gasped in shock.

_Fuck. Fuck!_

@@@

Clark felt his whole world flip and wobble. He heard Alex's heart speed up like a horse at the gallop and the tiny noise of shock he managed to swallow. Alex's pupils swelled and then shrank, while heated blood flushed his face and then swiftly rushed away, leaving his skin pale. There was so much happening that Clark was distracted by it all and then…it hit him, excitement swept over him like a prairie fire. He was kissing Alex. Alex was letting it happen. Alex _wanted_ to kiss him. Clark gasped with the shock of it. _Alex_ wanted to kiss him. And now Alex was balling a hand in his jacket…and now he was…pushing Clark away. _No!_

Alex looked frightened—no, horrified. He was shaking his head, and nothing was coming out of his mouth and Clark couldn't imagine why he looked so upset and than it hit him—Pete. They'd both forgotten Alex's lover. Clark could feel the horror in his expression, the instant guilt he felt was reflected on Alex's face, and then Alex was suddenly so calm, his face still and smooth as an ice carving. Clark started to babble. "I'm so sorry, I—I am so sorry."

Alex smiled and nodded. "It's fine, Clark, It's okay—it was a mistake. It's nothing to panic over."

Clark nodded too, and was surprised how much it hurt when Alex stepped away and waved good-bye so…damn cheerfully, smiling like nothing had happened, like he had no idea that this _should_ have been the most perfect moment of their lives. Instead, the only time worse than this was when he'd been hanging in that field....

It felt like Alex had torn his heart out, instead of Alex having done the right thing.

"All right then," Alex practically sang, disgustingly, stupidly cheerful. "See you the day after tomorrow—and you have a Merry Christmas, Clark."

Clark dropped his head to hide rapidly filling eyes. He mumbled something appropriate and shut the door practically in Alex's face. He felt a moment's twinge about being so rude, but hell…. He leaned against the doorframe and listened to Alex's even paces away down the hall—precise clicks, heel, toe, heel, toe. He counted them all the way out to the street, until Alex flagged down a hack and was gone.

Clark fell back onto the bed. He burned in a fire of embarrassment, anger and arousal. It was confusing and awful and he only knew one thing to do to end it. He worked open his pants, shoved them to his hips and jerked off—hard, so fast and so brutal, it would have been too dangerous for a human.

Just perfect for a freak.

@@@

_Hannah came out to the porch, excited by the sight of dozens of fireflies dancing at the rear of the yard. It wasn't full-dark, but that thick velvety-blue that came out right after sunset, and the little dancing lights looked like stars tumbling over the grass. His sister sat between his knees and together they sang all the songs they knew about stars._

_After a bit, Mom came out from the kitchen, carrying bowls piled high with ice cream and Hannah crowed happily, "Peach! We love peach, don't we, Clark."_

_Clark nodded and let the heaping spoonful she fed him melt on his tongue, and then chewed on the little chunks of frozen fruit._

_Mom sat next to him, her long legs stretched out, fanning herself lazily with one of the gingham kitchen towels still damp from drying dishes. She pushed a heat-loosened curl behind her ear and smiled, watching Hannah run out on the lawn to chase fireflies. She started to sing, softly, "They asked me how I knew, my true love was true—" and Clark closed his eyes and sang with her, "I, of course replied, something here inside cannot be denied—" thinking of…wild blond hair, wicked, laughing, crystal-blue eyes…his heart soared with the notes._

_A creak behind him made him turn, and Dad was letting the screen door close behind him, a big smile creasing his face, smelling of Ivory soap, and wearing a clean shirt and for a moment, he had eyes only for his wife. Clark smiled and looked towards Hannah dashing about on the lawn._

_Dad walked past him, squeezed his shoulder before hopping off the porch to catch up with Hannah. He swung her up in the air and held her high as they danced to the rhythm of the song Mom was singing._

_Hannah led Dad back to the porch, and they sat together, Mom and Dad talking quietly as the night darkened and Hannah fell asleep in Mom's lap…._

@@@

Christmas morning found him waking late, his pillow creased and wet beneath his cheek. He rubbed knuckles over his eyes and, for the first time in a long time, thought seriously about going home. The dream had been, oh, had been so very nice. It used to be like that—how had he forgotten the good that Smallville held? All the wonderful summer evenings, all the love…his family had cared…still cared, he was sure. He'd just forgotten how to see it. He sighed. Not that life here wasn't good too, it was. He was just letting his feelings for Alex tarnish the brightness of it a bit. He'd get over it—after all, hadn't he gotten over Whitney? He'd gotten over Reggie leaving him in the lurch, and he'd get over Alex, too.

He rolled out of bed, grabbed up the blanket and tossed it over his shoulders. From the table, he took a paper bag that held chestnuts and went up to the roof. He sat atop the wall blocking the edge and let his feet dangle over the side. He shook some chestnuts into his hand, scored them with a fingernail, and heated them up with his fire vision. He peeled and ate roasted chestnuts, and watched the sun rise over the silent tenement roof tops. "Merry Christmas," he whispered, and his breath puffed out like smoke in the frozen air.

 

_The music in this part is[Smoke Gets In Your Eyes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R_OkmVtUaA0)_

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It was dawn on Christmas morning…Clark aimlessly walked the nearly empty streets, but his traitorous feet took him right to Alex's street. He didn't see him but, of course, he didn't expect to. It was early, and folks were still at church or opening gifts. It was nice and quiet. _Awfully _quiet. Clark wished it was a little noisier.__

__He walked on, past Alex's building, walked until he was standing outside of Pete's boarding house. He swallowed hard, crossed his fingers, and went up to his room. Dark eyes followed him as he went up the stairs, tracked his progress through the dilapidated, cabbage-scented halls. He could hear whispering behind him, outraged, amused, bemused...his was the only pale face in sight, had been for a few blocks. It wasn't that big a deal—in Pete's neighborhood, his difference was just more apparent. He tuned out the whispering and giggles, and tapped on Pete's door._ _

__It was quiet inside the room, and Clark suddenly realized Pete was probably at church. He was about to go but the door opened, and a sleep-befuddled Pete stared out. "C.C., what the heck are you doing here? Come in." He nearly yanked Clark inside, and Clark quickly flowed with the force of the pull on him. "What are you doing here?" he asked again. "I don't mind, I just…I'm getting ready to go to Ma's…Clark?"_ _

__Clark looked around the little room, neat and spare and so much like his own. Everything was in its place, an empty crate in one corner doing duty as a book case. Pete's notebooks were stacked in them, and his table was covered with lined paper, pencils, pen nibs and ink blotters, instead of a cloth. Clark noticed two empty glasses at the table and an ashtray with a few butts crushed in it, and he knew Pete didn't smoke. Clark felt small and cold. "Pete," he sighed. "I have to confess something to you."_ _

__Pete's eyes opened wide. "To me? Saint Clark wants to confess something? Sing out, cat, I'm dying to know." He grinned, swung a chair from the table, straddled it backwards, and said, "Flap 'em son, and make it good!" He looked comically expectant. Clark just felt worse._ _

__"I—I kissed Alex," he said, and hung his head. "I'm sorry."_ _

__Pete's elbows slid off the chair back and he gaped at Clark. "Alex? But I thought…you and Chloe…Alex? Wow…" He looked a little less stunned and began to smile…"Well, all reet. Hot damn." He was grinning from ear to ear, and Clark was…surprised. And startled and very much confused. Pete leapt up and slapped Clark's shoulder. "C.C., good for you. That's great…but don’t lose your head, y'hear?"_ _

__"You don’t mind? Aren't you—you two—"_ _

__"Who— _us?_ No! No…" his expression held a wisp of regret, but his voice was light. "Not Alex. He's not the kind of guy who does steady. Once he been with you, it's done." Pete shrugged. "It's just the way he is. He's not nasty about it, it's just Alex. That's why I'm tellin' you; don't lose your head over him. He's a great guy, yeah, but…" he shrugged again._ _

__Clark felt like he'd stepped into a cold shower. For one second, he'd felt on top of the world and the very next, he was at the bottom again. "Not ever?"_ _

__Pete shook his head, sympathy made him reach out and squeeze Clark's hand. "Not ever."_ _

__Clark slumped into a chair, his long legs tangled with the table legs. Not ever…. He supposed he should feel devastated but he didn't, he felt…angry. Alex sleeps around, hunh? Never with the same guy twice. Clark sat a little higher. "Not ever, hunh?" That itchy, burning feeling started up behind his eyes—he blinked a few times before it died. He glared at Pete. "Well, that's because he's never—never—met _me._ Just you wait, Pete, there'll be some changes soon," Clark growled._ _

__"C.C.?" Pete took a step back. "Say man…are you cool? You need a drink? Split a spliff?" He tilted his head at Clark. "Aaah, you poor dope—but dig, I'm laying odds on you. If anyone can hook him, I gotta believe it's you. I don’t think you'll even have to work very hard to reel that catfish in."_ _

__Clark looked up at Pete and grinned, held his hand out, palm up. "Damn right, I won't. Skin me, Jackson."_ _

__Pete looked Clark up and down, wide-eyed with surprise, and slowly his grin widened until he was laughing hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. He slapped Clark's outstretched hand and crowed, "Sure enough, hep-cat, sure enough!"  
_ _

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	8. Chapter 8

Sun made the snow, at least what wasn't grimed over with coal dust or yellowed or muddy, sparkle in the bright sunlight. Clark leaned elbows on the deep sill of the barred rehearsal room window and gazed out on the street. He felt good—felt like if he wanted to, he could jump straight up into the air and touch the sun. It was a good day all around. Rehearsal was going great, Chloe was so in tune with him that it was scary, and the guys were ripping it up like nobody's business. Christmas might have been a letdown, but today—today was great. Since talking to Pete the day before, Clark felt like he had the world by the tail. He didn’t have Alex yet, but he knew it was just a matter of time. And he planned to tell Chloe, as soon as he could figure out how to let her down in a way that would let them go on being friends…in other words, he was hoping for a miracle....

He glanced over at Alex leaning against the stage and talking to Chloe, the two of them quietly laughing about something and, for a split second, Clark felt cold. Look at them, he thought—they look so happy, so comfortable with each other. Would Alex ever look that comfortable with him? Laugh like that with him? What if it never—

"Hey, C.C.—how about joining the rest of us on planet Earth, hunh? Jeez—yer girl's waiting over here—come warble!" Walt briskly motioned him over, and Chloe came up off her perch on the edge of the stage, grabbed Clark by the arm, and dragged him to the center of the stage.

"We're ready to go, Boss."

Chloe looked at Clark hard, and he grinned sheepishly. "Yep, ready Mr. Walt, sorry…."

The band settled down and, after a few seconds, the melody of Where or When filled the air. "Okay," Walt said, "Let's do it—ready, Clark, Chloe?"

Clark folded his arms and shook his head. "Nope." The band played on for a few minutes, but when it became apparent Clark was serious, it stuttered and wheezed to a discordant stop. All eyes were on Clark and Walt. Alex stared at him like he'd lost his mind. Clark took a deep breath and said, "I've got an idea for another closer. I'm—I'm not singing that one anymore."

Chloe looked at him like he was crazy, and Walt was open mouthed in shock. "What—you gotta—you _nuts?_ That's our—folks expect it!"

Clark stood his ground. "No, I don’t want to sing it." Not to Chloe…not to anyone. Yet.

Walt was gearing up to let Clark have it when Alex dropped a hand on Walt's arm. "Let it go, okay? Let's see what the kid wants to sing instead."

Clark looked to Alex to thank him, but Alex wouldn’t meet his eyes. He had that odd too-pleasant smile on his face again, the smile that made Clark think about high school and Whitney….

Walt snorted. "All right—seems you're the big cheese all of a damn sudden—what do you want, _Mr. Kent?"_

Clark licked his lips and watched Alex walk away. "Um. Green Eyes. I uh…talked to Pete; he's got the music.…"

"Oh, do he…." Walt narrowed his eyes at Pete, who looked skyward, whistling innocently, and ignored Walt's growl of "Rat." Walt tapped his fingers on a music stand in thought, and after a moment, nodded. "Yeah, yeah—you two—yeah, okay."

There was a noise from the front of the club. Everyone looked to the door as a couple of bruisers walked in. Behind them strolled the club manager, hands in his pocket, a toothpick in the corner of his mouth and a too-casual air of indifference on his face. He looked around, and his eyes landed on Alex. He jerked his head to the door.

Alex froze for a long minute before he turned to Walt. "I'm sorry. I'll be back in a second."

With a concerned frown, Walt watched Alex walk out with Mahaney. Clark heard Pete say, "What the hell was that about?" Walt just looked worried.

Alex came back in with his coat on, spoke quietly to Walt, and then left quickly. Clark jumped off the stage and hurried over to the band leader. "What's going on? Is there trouble with the club?"

Walt looked helpless, shrugged his shoulders, and said, "I'm not sure…no, no trouble with the club…." His eyes were on the open doorway, and he didn’t speak again. Clark walked quickly to the open door and overheard Alex and Mr. Mahaney talking. Alex said, "You said my time was my own." Mahaney answered him, "Until I call you, it is."

Clark heard nothing else, but he went out after them, and watched Alex get in a car with Mr. Mahaney. What he saw made him furious. The man seemed to run his hand over Alex's butt as he got into the car. Pete had it right—what the hell _was_ that?

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Alex fumed as Wade blew smoke rings and watched him. After a long minute, he said, "I told you, your time was yours until I called. I called."

"Yes, but…the band. I can't just leave because you want me to." Alex closed his eyes. Of course Wade expected him to do just that. Granted, this whole business had been a lot less horrific than he'd expected, Wade was even strangely rather kind…in his own way. "Listen, I know that you're in charge of the club, I know what you say goes, but when it comes to the band itself, Walt is in charge, and I have to defer to him. I'm sorry but you see that, don’t you?" Alex looked at Wade, willing him to understand, and Wade did look thoughtful. He nodded slowly, and Alex gratefully stroked the back of his hand, wanting to thank him by gifting him with an affectionate gesture. Wade watched his hand with a little smile.

"You understand that I don't mind these…dates…with you," and that was almost the truth. So far, he'd had two letters and a picture from Jules—contact, just like Wade had promised. And it went beyond that…there'd been an evening or two that they talked about current events like regular people before…before. Wade liked listening to the radio, and liked for Alex to sit with him. They ate dinner together a few times, and Wade made sure his chef prepared something that Alex liked. Wade could be a nice guy. And the sex…was okay. Not too bad. Nothing he couldn't handle or hadn't engaged in before with other partners, and survived—  
He turned his face to the window, watched the street rush by. The few pushcarts out on the streets lent garish color against the mostly gray snow, the sun glittering on the rare clean patch of snow blinded him; his cheek was chilled by the cold pushing against the glass…his thoughts flew like the streets, his life, his brother…Clark….

Wade spoke, his soft voice rolling over Alex. "So, New Years. After the gig in the club, you've got an appointment with me. Whoever you've got lined up for that evening...be done by one o'clock." He went silent again, and Alex didn’t speak. No reply was necessary.

The car stopped in front of the building where Wade held an apartment. He had separate addresses for different needs. There was his family home with wife and children, his business address, and this one. Alex stepped out and to the side, as the driver held the door for Wade. He followed him up the stairs and into the luxurious apartment.

Wade was quiet, taking his coat off and handing it to Alex, who raised an eyebrow but took it. He could hear the radio in the other bedroom towards the back of the apartment. Wallboy was here, he always was. Usually, he took care of butler duties….

"Come here." Alex turned from the closet. Wade was sitting in a yellow club chair in the living room with his legs spread wide, one hand resting on his unbuttoned fly, and a small smile on his face. Alex didn't hesitate—he dropped to his knees in front of the chair, and moving Wade's hand aside, released his dick from the cotton briefs. As always, Wade smelled of…nothing...cotton, laundry soap…the faintest hint of roses. With lips and tongue, Alex worked to bring him fully erect. Wade's dick rode against his palette, back and forth as he bobbed his head. He kept his eyes closed to avoid meeting Wade's, relaxed his throat, about to sink down when he felt something hard, cold, jab him in the corner of his eye.

"Hey."

He opened his eyes and found himself looking into the barrel of a gun. It moved closer and closer until it pressed painfully against his left cheek bone, dragged up and across the bridge of his nose and jammed into the inner corner of his right eye. There was a click. "You…don't tell me what to do. Mistake. I'm not your friend."

Wade jabbed the gun tighter against his eye, pushing Alex's head back, back—stars flashed and blew in the darkness behind his closed eyelids. His heart slammed in his chest, he felt sweat forming under the metal. He pictured his eye bursting like a grape squeezed under a thumb, swallowed hard. "Okay," he gasped. "M'sorry." The pain disappeared, the pressure of the barrel lessened, and Alex barely got a breath before Wade cupped the back of his head and pushed him down. Alex sucked him off with the gun barrel pressing against the middle of his brow.

He was wiping his swollen mouth when Wade pulled him to his feet, and growled against his cheek, "I could put a bullet in your eye—or I could put a bullet through your hands. Don’t forget." He kissed him, shoving his tongue into his mouth as if he were trying to find himself inside. He smirked and whirled Alex around, and pushed him towards the bathroom. "Wash yourself—I'll wait in the bed."

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Clark watched the sedan pull away from the curb, stared after it long after it was impossible to see. Pete came out and laid his hand on Clark's shoulder.

"Clark, man, I didn’t know. I—but it's probably business, right?" Clark looked at Pete, and Pete swallowed. "Yeah…bullshit."

Clark sighed and walked back into rehearsal, ignoring the look Walt gave him, concentrated on smiling and laughing with Chloe. They practiced 'Green Eyes,' and Clark imagined gray eyes to help him through it.

Eventually, Walt declared himself happy with the song change, broke down the problems with that day's rehearsal, warned Alto Sax to stop showboating because it was going to end up with him under the El with a hat on the ground and a boot in his ass. "Okay, Chloe, Clark, that tune's a real showstopper. Unh—say Clark—this is a—you know—a love song—I'm telling you, the look on your mug?—more threat than pash—"

Chloe nodded, "Jeepers yeah, C.C., I thought you were going to bite my head off! Did I do something, say something. Heck, don’t make me guess—"

"Oh no, Chloe, you were great, you're always great. I'm just…just kind of beat. Walt, can I go now?"

"Free as a bird, C.C. Go."

Not too fast, not too fast…Clark reminded himself over and over as he trotted over to the coat rack and grabbed his from the rest, remembering at the last minute to put his gloves and hat on. It was late afternoon, and the street was a little too busy for Clark to take the chance of speeding to Alex's place, besides, he was pretty sure he wouldn't be there—Mr. Mahaney didn't look like the kind of guy who'd have an informal meeting. They were probably at some swanky restaurant, something a little more upscale even than the Luxor. 

Clark slowed down and strolled along the streets, waving at the faces familiar to him. He knew most of the shop keepers along the streets that intersected Bessolo Boulevard, not to mention most of the cops. He waved at one of them now, a mounted policeman crossing East 66th. He waved back at Clark and his mount whickered and dipped her head. They were easy-going, friendly and usually Clark would stop to chat briefly but today, he had something important to do.

He followed the loop Bessolo took around Centennial Park, before it straightened out and headed in the direction that eventually ended in Suicide Slums. Alex's apartment was quite a few blocks from the Slums, Pete's folk’s house, not so much. The neighborhood was still nice where the Rosses lived, and the newly minted American, the immigrants who lived in those neighborhoods, made the streets colorful and fascinating—they might not have had a lot of money but they were still full of hope and belief in the Metropolitan melting pot. Clark knew that a few more blocks north, winding down to the warehouse district, it was a different world. 

The Slums crowded up against the factories, train depots and warehouses that were Metropolis' lifeblood. He knew first-hand how poverty and despair could crush the light from people’s lives …Clark shivered a little. It was quiet now—the Slums tended to be quiet in the day and he planned to take advantage. He stopped on Alex's block and thought about stopping in the little café Alex had taken him to before Christmas, but no, he wasn't going there again until Alex took him. He settled for a sausage and pepper sandwich from a push cart, and a bottle of crème soda. He sipped tentatively and winced…he wasn't sure he liked it all that much but it certainly wasn't going to hurt him. He bought a paper from a newsstand and flirted boldly with a tall dark-haired boy in a killer camel hair overcoat who was movie star handsome and flirted right back…Clark grinned. He'd watched Clark buy a sandwich, and kept watching as Clark walked away. He stopped at the corner and looked back—the guy was still watching him. Clark figured he should have been ashamed of his interest, and a few days ago he might have been but…hell, if he had an interest in men instead of women, who was to tell him it was sinful or wrong for _him? _Clark snorted. His business was his own.__

__He parked himself on Alex's stoop. He unwrapped the sandwich, opened the newspaper to his favorite section, folded the paper in half and half again and settled in to eat and read his current favorites, Flash Gordon and Tarzan. He liked them because the stories were exciting and the artwork was great and not in the least because they were both hunks. Mostly not because they were hunks…he grinned to himself, and bit into his sandwich._ _

____

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The sun was dropping behind the rooftops, it was getting dark. The streets were nearly empty, and he'd read all parts of the paper including every single item in the classifieds and Alex was still out. Clark had hashed and rehashed what he'd say to Alex when he finally got home—that he knew Pete and he weren't a couple, and to stop not looking at him, and this time, he wanted a real kiss and just what the hell was up with Mr. Mahaney? Walt never left the club with him and he was the leader of the band—hell, he never saw _Mr. Louis_ leave with him, and he _ran_ the Luxor, plus the day to day of the Al-Kazar. Besides, he really didn’t like that Mr. Mahaney, he had eyes like a rattler.

It was full dark before Clark finally decided he'd had enough. He'd deal with this another day—tomorrow. He gathered up his newspaper and trash and was poised to speed home when he heard a scream. The sound came from blocks away—Suicide Slums. The scream was a woman's—down there, at this time of night, it was probably a street walker—Clark was up and running before he'd even finished thinking about it. He ran fast, at the top of his speed, fast enough that the world froze. It was like running into a stage backcloth—everything was still, silent, and frozen into place and he was embarrassed to admit how good it felt to have his own private world….

The warehouse district was dark even in the day—at night it was frightening, the sky crisscrossed with elevated tracks, the buildings seeming to tilt together over the roads. Here, in the gloom and filth, people the city wanted to forget tried to eke out an existence, any way they could.

He followed the screams to a spot under the El, and there she was, a woman surrounded by a pack of jackals with human faces. They were laughing, taunting her, saying terrible things, promising to do awful things to her. Clark could never understand why people wanted to hurt each other so, why the strong, instead of helping the weak, preyed on them—it made him angry. It was unfair.

_This_ was unfair. The woman was scared and weak, a tiny scrap of a thing compared to the men toying with her. They pushed and slapped her, blocking her escape from their circle. Clark felt the blood burning in his face, felt his mouth pull down into a ferocious frown. Those jerks needed a lesson, and he was the one to give it to them.

He swept around them at his top speed in rapidly shrinking circles. With each loop around, trash and dirt whirled high into the air; the confused thugs staggered and fell into each other. He slowed to punch one, and the jerk flew through the air, landing in a garbage bin with a wet crack, howling with pain. Clark broke another one's wrist, hissing," G'wan, try to take someone's hard earned cash with that busted mitt, you goon." With a grim little smile of satisfaction, he whirled and grabbed another of the mooks by his collar before he could make a break for it. "Trying to run, hunh? Why don’t you pick on someone your own size, and leave defenseless little girls alone, you creep!" Clark slapped the mug, splitting his lip and sending a tooth flying.

In quick succession, he left his mark on each jackal, stopping short of causing permanent damage but just by a hair. He wanted these guys walking around, an advertisement that in Metropolis, crime didn’t pay. He yanked a metal signpost out of the sidewalk, and bent it around the unconscious goons.

The whole incident happened in the blink of an eye, to the victim it must have seemed as if an invisible force buffeted the thugs but…Clark sighed. He couldn't take a chance on her having seen who'd saved her. He sped to her side, a grey and black blur, and tapped her gently on the forehead. He caught her as she fell, knocked out cold. A search of her handbag yielded an address and he breathed a sigh of relief. He'd left people in churches before but he preferred to bring them to the safety of their own homes. The goons he left tied up in a metal bow with a note for the coppers. They were on their own.

He was going to have to do something about hiding his identity. He'd thought about not hiding but came to the conclusion that if he did that, he'd have no life of his own. He knew people. If they were aware that the 'Metropolis Angel' was Clark Kent, the life he was living now would be over, snowed under by a million petty requests from folks who could probably help themselves, buried by demands that he fix this, or make that happen or—or—squeeze coal into diamonds like some Arabian Nights genie. No thanks. He looked down into the care-worn face of the woman he's saved this evening and grimaced…he was pretty sure knocking people out like that couldn’t be good for them…

By the time he made his way back to Alex's building it was almost dawn, and Clark figured that Alex had to be home now, there was no reason for him to be out all night long, certainly not with Mr. Rattlesnake Eyes. He'd have to wake him up, and he hoped Alex wouldn’t mind. He had a brief flash of Alex wearing soft silk pajamas, just like the ones the stars wore in Screen Idol magazine. He stopped on the apartment building stairs, and listened. He heard nothing inside that sounded like Alex. Lots of heartbeats, but which one, if any, was Alex's he had no idea. Clark blushed…a lot of people were making love…he forced his hearing back to normal levels. He looked up at the building, and wished he could see inside. Now, that would be a real handy gift to have, X-ray eyes.

He pressed the apartment buzzer. Once, twice…three times…Clark huffed in frustration. He doubted Alex slept so soundly that he wouldn't hear that buzzer. It was more than likely that he wasn't home, hadn’t been home all night. Clark felt the familiar itch and slight burn behind his eyes, and squashed the spike of anger swelling in his chest. Fine. He'd wait. He had all the time in the world to wait.

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Morning brought bright winter sunlight peeking over the roof-tops—it woke Clark from his light doze. He yawned, surprised he'd dozed off at all, even though it'd been a few days since he'd slept. He stretched and startled a cat who'd been sharing the step with him, probably enjoying the warmth. It gave him a dirty look, jumped off the step and headed for the street, whipped around and leaped onto a garbage bin when a big black Cadillac sedan pulled up to the curb. Clark quickly moved off the steps too, into the shadows of a narrow alleyway between the buildings.

The sedan rolled to a stop and the engine died. The driver got out—Clark recognized him as Mr. Mahaney's bodyguard, a great big slab of a guy. He opened the rear door and Alex climbed out, his face powder white, purple smudges under his eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept all night. Without a backward glance at the car, he trotted up the steps and let himself into the apartment building. The Cadillac sat at the curb until a light went on in Alex's apartment, and then pulled away.

Clark watched the car go; the air he breathed in felt thick and sticky. Maybe he should just go home…it didn’t take a professor to figure out who Alex had been with all night. But Pete said…and Alex didn't look happy….

He swallowed a few times, worked up the nerve to ring the buzzer again. He marched up the stair and pressed the buzzer. Instantly the intercom crackled to life, startling Clark.

"Who the hell is it?"

"Oh—it's me, Clark. Can I come up?"

"Clark? No! Wait…yes."

The door clicked, and Clark quickly pushed it open, and ran up the stairs to Alex's top floor apartment. He waited outside the apartment door until he figured the correct amount of time had passed before knocking tentatively. The door flew open and Alex was standing there, looking very annoyed—the expression only lightened a bit when Clark said, "I was in the neighborhood…"

"Clark, it's…" he glanced at the gold face of his watch. “It’s six in the morning. How the hell do you come to be 'just in the neighborhood’?”

Clark edged past Alex into the apartment. "I walk a lot—I don't sleep so good. Your place is nice." He cocked an eyebrow, and gazed about. "Hunh. Messier than I thought it'd be…"

Clothes were everywhere, on wooden hangers, on padded hangers….they hung from the tops of doors, and from curtain rods and light fixtures …there were empty and half-full glasses and cups and overflowing ashtrays everywhere. Clark craned his neck, tried to look down the dark hall off the living area. He wished he could see what Alex's bedroom looked like...he could see a bit of the kitchenette, with its breakfast nook and mullioned doors leading to a little balcony. "It must be nice here in the morning, lots of light," he said with a smile. Alex nodded, still looking…confused…alarmed?

Clark sighed and folded his hands together behind his back. He watched Alex walk away from him, over to a desk in one corner, rosewood and brass and topped with a hutch. The desk, in contrast to the rest of the living room, was a model of neatness—pens and ink on their tray, the blotter lined up perfectly, neat stacks of paper covered with painstakingly perfect script, and alone on top of the desk, sat his clarinet case, the black leather gleaming in the low light. Clark smiled at the order there. That was the Alex he'd imagined. Alex followed his eyes around the apartment. "Well…sometimes it's neater than this…" he said, and his sentence trailed off.

"Really? Are you sure? "Clark laughed. He smiled at Alex and Alex actually blushed. He frowned and half-turned away from Clark, waved his hand at a radio that ratcheted up Clark's envy by a thousand…wow, his parents would have loved a radio like that…the top was lifted and under the open lid was a record player. "Let's see if we can find some decent music this time of the morning—" Alex turned back to Clark with a wry smile. "That was a transparent bid to distract you from my lack of housekeeping," and Clark chuckled softly.

Alex bent over the dial, busily adjusting it until the station's sound was clear and music floated out of the cloth covered speakers. "What do you want Clark?" he murmured. "I thought last time we spoke, we agreed not to repeat any silly mistake."

Clark blinked at Alex. "I don’t remember that. I remember having a nice kiss and then, leaping to conclusions. You could have told me you and Pete weren't together."

"What?"

"I thought you and Pete were together and it...I couldn't do something like that. But I find out you're free, and I'm free, and that means—"

"Listen, Clark…I'm sorry, but this can't go anywhe—"

Clark kissed Alex—not much of one—a pretty crummy one, really, a kind of a mash of lips like little kids on a playground but he just needed to shut Alex up. "Get to know me before you say no," Clark said when he released Alex. "Get to know _me,_ not the singer in the band, not Chloe's—" Clark stopped, and swallowed hard. Yeah. "Not Chloe's friend. Me."

Alex shook his head. "I'm sorry. I can't. I don't…I don’t want to."

Clark felt like he had the time he'd fallen off that train trestle—shocked and helpless, unable to breathe. The smile he struggled to keep on his face wobbled just a bit. "Okay, I do feel kind of silly now. I was prepared to storm the castle," he laughed weakly, went on with a slighter bigger smile, "and here no one's at home. I don’t embarrass myself as much as I used to, but I've got to say, this was a doozy." He stepped past Alex and had his hand on the doorknob when Alex said, "Don't go."

He stopped and leaned his forehead on the door. "Why not?"

"Boy…" Alex swiped both hands over his head and sighed. "I don't know what it's like out in the country, what kind of things happen, but in the city, sometimes…sometimes you get caught up in other people's webs."

Clark turned to Alex with a puzzled look. Alex grimaced and said, "I mean to say…I kind of stepped into this setup that…turned a little sour. I don’t want anyone to know. I'm trying to protect people, people I care about. If you get caught between me and…this thing, you'll get hurt. I couldn’t stand knowing I hurt you.

His heart skipped a beat. "You can't hurt me. No one can, not now. Believe me."

Alex stalked away, grabbed a cigarette from the box on his desk. He lit it and drew in deep. "Clark, you don't know what kind of things can happen in this world. It's not like…it's different where I am, okay? Different rules apply. A person can get lost. A person can get hurt—or more—for a dozen different reasons."

Clark rubbed his face. "You mean Wade. You mean the people who run the club, and run the street. Don't you worry, Alex. I have a pretty damn good idea about this city and what happens in it. I walk at night. I see the underworld. I _know."_

"God, Clark, you _think_ you know."

Clark felt a tide of frustration sweep over him—he tried to stay calm, balanced. "What if that guy wasn't in the picture? If he couldn't hurt anyone? Would you want me? Tell me the truth, the real truth. I trust you to do that."

Alex blew a noisy breath thick with smoke out, he laughed. "Trust me? Buddy boy, you don't even know me. Wade is…he's my lover. That's what I've been trying to tell you. Not Pete. Wade does things for me that you wouldn't understand."

Clark jerked back from Alex. "You're lying. I asked you for the truth and you're lying to me."

Alex laughed. "God, Clark, how old are you? Twenty, nineteen?" He suddenly looked wary…I'm serious Clark, how old are you?

"I'm…eighteen."

"Go home," he waved his hand. "Go back to—to—whatever farm town you came from and—"

Clark reached out and grabbed the hand Alex was waving. He closed his hand around the cigarette Alex held. "I'm not leaving. And I can take anything Wade or any of those goons can dish out." Alex yelped and tried to jerk his hand back. Clark only squeezed and opened his hand, showed Alex the crushed butt…and his unblemished hand. "I can protect you. Promise."

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Alex gaped at what should have been a pretty bad burn. Clark flexed his fingers, flattened his palm. It was clear…nothing but a black smear and ashes in his palm. Alex rubbed his thumb though it. "No mark—" Alex swept his free hand over his head. "What's the gimmick, Clark? How'd you do that?"

"Alex, there's something I want to tell you. Have to tell you. You have to listen with an…an open mind." Clark smiled a little, nerves making his mouth quirk. "You…have you ever wondered about life on…other worlds?"

"What, like…Things To Come? Buck Rogers? Monsters coming from space?"

Clark winced. "No, I mean like—" The door buzzer went off like a hive of crazed bees, on and off, and Alex thumbed the intercom. "Hey!" he shouted. "Do you mind?"

"Where are you? Rehearsal—hard to have when my lead guy is still in bed. Besides I brought breakfast—I'll let you look at my ass—"

"Jesus. Come on up." The look Alex turned on Clark was mostly relieved. "Can we talk later?"

"Yeah, but…Alex, this is important. Can we talk after the show tonight?"

The door flew open and Walt came in. "Hey, Alex—C.C.?" Walt threw the bag of donuts at Clark. "Hi. What are you doing here? Chloe's been looking for you." He narrowed his eyes at Clark, stared him up and down…he looked at Alex suspiciously. "Everything all right? You're not arguing over the song or anything, are you?"

"No sir, Mr. Walt. I just came to tell Alex something. It can wait, I guess." Walt was still looking at him, curiosity in his gaze. "Can I see you in the kitchen before I go, Alex?"

"Clark…"

"Just for one minute."

"Oh, all right." Clark walked past Walt with an apologetic smile and followed Alex into the small kitchenette.

"I wanted to say…" He curved his hands around Alex's shoulders and leaned in. "I hope you let me…" He pressed his lips to Alex's and this time, it wasn't a hasty smash of lips and teeth and chin. This time, it was soft and sweet, like he'd never ever kissed anyone before. He pressed in, flicked the tip of his tongue right against that little scar in the center of Alex's lip because he'd wanted to know how that felt…Alex moaned a little, and Clark felt everything flip inside of him. "Oh…" He lunged forward, pinching tender flesh between teeth, jamming his nose against Alex's. Alex laughed into Clark's mouth—gently took control of the kiss, guiding Clark into it. Clark let Alex tease his mouth open, slide his tongue inside, rake his lips with his teeth, over and over, scrape and sooth, scrape and sooth until they tingled, until they felt like they were burning…Clark didn't think anything could feel better and then Alex rolled his hips against Clark's.

Clark cried out, forgetting Walt, forgetting everything but that feeling, that touch. He was instantly hard, so hard it was almost painful. He was groaning, reaching out and pulling Alex into him, trying to keep Alex's cock rubbing against his. Blood thundered in his ears, his cock, the pulse beat all through him, filling him—he felt that tingling, thrumming, wild feeling start in his gut, the base of his cock. His boxers were wet and clinging to him, and…he was so close, he needed to stop, stop touching….

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It was like being dropped into the center of a volcano. Like falling into fire, a whole lake of fire…Clark was so…so…inexperienced, but enthusiastic. Wildly enthusiastic. Alex felt a little flash of fear… _strong_ and wildly enthusiastic….They hit the kitchen table and it scraped across the floor with a shriek, the chairs went tumbling.

"Shhh! Clark—Walt—!" Alex gasped, tried to keep his mouth against Clark's but Clark kept whimpering, moving, pulling Alex with him, trying to grind against him. They staggered the length of the little kitchen, bumping against counter, stove, icebox, making a horrible racket and all Alex could do was try to keep up with him, grinning, laughing….

Clark fetched up against the icebox and moaned. "You're laughing at me."

"God, no, Clark, you—you're so fucking sexy—so fucking—it's adorable—"

Clark dropped his hands from Alex's hips, and stood swaying, red-faced and sweating, his clothes rumpled, his hair wild from Alex's grip in it. " _Adorable?"_ Alex blinked. For one strange moment, Clark's eyes seemed to flash red…he shook his head and looked again, and Clark's sea green eyes glittered through a messy fall of black waves. He was scowling, trying to pull his clothes back in order.

Alex raked his fingers through Clark's hair, trying to fix it. He said quietly, "Hey, did you go deaf on the part where I said sexy? Very sexy…" 

A very impressive bulge filled out the front of Clark's chinos, a little too impressive if he wanted to walk past Walt without advertising what'd been going on in the kitchen. He yanked Clark's shirt out, smoothed it over his pants to hide the bulge. He meant to do it quickly, impersonally, but the heat, the thickness…the kid was so fucking…alive, he had to squeeze, feel it, just a little. Clark yelped, threw his head back against the icebox. Alex winced. The poor guy's head hit with a 'thunk' that had to be heard in the other room. Hard hit or not, Clark pushed into Alex's hand, and shuddered so hard, for a second Alex thought he'd come. "Clark…?"

Clark lowered his head to look at him, slowly opening his eyes. "I…I. I'm sorry. I've never done this with. I mean, I've come pretty close…damn." He flushed even harder.

Alex drank in the sight of him, flushed and quivering…God, Clark was the picture of sex and he didn't even know it. Alex wanted more than anything to toss Walt out of the apartment, rip Clark's clothes off and suck his cock until he had him deep in his throat. He wanted his tongue in every bit of him, from his mouth to his ass—he wanted to throw him face down on the bed and fuck him until they both screamed.

And he couldn't, and it was going to kill him, swear to god, this was going to murder him. His prick didn't care about right and wrong, it was trying to rise….He swallowed down a groan and tried a smile. "Don't worry, I couldn't tell. Not at all."

Clark backed out of the room, still red-cheeked, now smiling. "I'll see you tonight, I mean, at rehearsal. I mean—" he laughed, whirled around and out of the room.

Alex whispered at Clark's departing back. "God, I wish…I wish."

@@@

Chloe sat on the edge of her stool, swinging slightly from side to side as she sipped at her vanilla coke—and waited. Clark was _supposed_ to meet her here and he was late by about…she glanced at her watch…fifteen minutes. Which meant he should be walking in the door in about another ten minutes. She always added an extra twenty or so minutes to whatever time Clark gave her. She sighed, nibbled on the straw.

Clark. He was a puzzle. A real Chinese puzzle box of a boy. When they'd first began dating…or _whatever_ you called what they were doing, he'd been all big clumsy hands and sloppy kisses and heavy breathing. And then—zip. Nothing. Goose egg. Just a lot of excuses and 'I'm sorrys' and 'I've got a headache', and sure, he was still a good friend, but ever since she came back from Connecticut, that's _all_ he was—a friend. And that wasn't what she wanted. Friends she had a damn dime a dozen. But Clark…Clark made her feel…herself. More herself than when she was without him. When she was with him, she felt like she was beautiful, like she was sexy and _alive._ He touched her and she just quivered, inside and out in a way that would have been embarrassing with anyone else but Clark. She bit down savagely on the straw, chewing through the paper stem and unraveling it. Crap! She pulled it out of the coke and tossed it down, jammed another in her glass with an exasperated huff. If she could get him to just—just _get_ with it. This stop and go business was awful and she was uncomfortably aware of what guys must feel like, though there was no damn way she was begging Clark for it…besides, she couldn't claim blue balls would kill her, lacking balls for one thing....

God knows, she mused, she really had nothing to complain about—nothing she should complain about. Most guys, when they found out her non-virginal status, wanted to paint her with a big scarlet A, the bastards—on account of most guys being two-faced, panty chasing, double dealing chiselers—but not Clark. Clark was just so….different. So….

"Miss, _can_ I get you something else?" the soda jerk asked, and she jumped, knocked out of her thoughts. He stared at her with a heavy hint of 'get something or get off the stool'. She smiled her sweetest, widest, brightest smile.

"Well, I'd just love a slice of that apple pie," she pointed to the pie displayed on a covered glass stand. "But can you cut the slice thinner?"

He sighed lifted the glass dome, grabbed the pie-server and began to saw at the pastry.

She held up her hand, thumb and forefinger an inch apart. "Smaller, please?"

He moved the knife in an inch.

"Smaller."

He rolled his eyes and jabbed the knife into the crust, an inch over from his first cut.

"Smaller—"

"Chloe! There you are!"

"Oh, never mind, don’t cut it at all." She beamed and tossed her head, her blonde curls dancing in an effect she knew looked good—she'd practiced.

The soda jerk gave her a look that was all about shiny, sharp objects and irritating little blondes and growled, "Of course… _miss_."

"And can you bring my friend a cupa joe, white, and heavy on the sugar?"

Clark plopped down on the stool next to her. "Hiya, Chloe—oh great, pie!" He swung the plate in front of himself and dug in without another word. She wished he'd greet _her_ with as much enthusiasm. Geez, the way the big lug scarfed up that pie. _I'm jealous of a damn pastry…Sullivan, old girl, reel it in, before they drag you off to the bug house…_

She watched him wolf half of the slice, and gulp most of the java, before speaking. "You wanted to talk to me about something important, Clark," she gently reminded.

"Oh!" He swallowed the bite in his mouth in a way that managed to look guilty. "Oh, yeah. I…I wanted to talk to you about. You know. About us."

She kept a smile on her face by sheer force of will. _About us …_ in Chloe's experience, those words meant 'something's goin' to happen and it ain't nothing good'…she'd heard them plenty times before—hell, used them herself too many times. They meant one thing. The boot. The brush-off. The old heave-ho. _Bastard…_

"Chloe, I like you, a lot. A whole lot. And if things were different you and I would be gangbusters together…"

"But—" Chloe said, and leaning forward, she fixed him with a steely glare that she just managed to keep tears out of. "—but you found someone else while I was gone, someone with more prospects than little Chloe Sullivan from nowhere. What, you found some low flight starlet to squire you around? All that attention from the stage-hangers went to your head? Some broad snagged you—"

"It's Alex."

"The who the what you say! _Alex?"_ She yelped. "Alex? You're fucking kidding me!"

"I'm not, I mean it, it's Alex and I'm in love with—"

"I'm going to kill that bitch. Holy hell, I'm going to kill him, gut him, and then I'm going to shove his guts back up his ass and then I'm going to cut off his di—"

Clark's huge hand was wrapped around her mouth, and he looked terrified. "Shh! You're making a scene! Oh gosh! Don’t cry now, please, don’t."

She was about to bite him. Cry? Cry—-she'd die first before she cried in public…but tears _were_ falling and she felt so betrayed. How could he do this to her? Break her heart like this—how could Alex do this to her? How could he hurt her? He was her closest friend, her…her brother. And he took Clark. She blinked tears away, snatched a handful of napkins from Clark's tentative grip and scrubbed at her mascara. Well. Stupid, really. He couldn't take Clark unless Clark was able to be taken, right? She dropped her head to her fists. Oh—damn it; she was a sucker and a boob. No wonder he wouldn’t fuck her. No wonder it was almost all above the waist and nearly all above the clothes. _Oh my god, hours and torturous hours above the clothes and there'd never been a snowball's chance in hell of a payoff? All that…hope…_ She lifted her head and glared blearily at him. "God, I hate you."

Clark looked at her, his eyes were huge deep wells of sympathy and guilt, his lips turned down in a sad little frown, they were pink where he bit them, and so full—she had to wrench her eyes away and clench her fists—tight. His hand inched closer to hers…"I know. I'm so sorry."

She snatched her hand away. Oh fer cryin' out—right now she should be wishing him dead, and yet, here she was starting to feel sorry for _him!_ And fuck—feeling a little warm between the legs… "Clark Kent—you son of a—why did you string me along like that?"

"Chloe, I swear, I wasn't, I mean, I didn't think I was. I thought I…and then Alex…and things kind of fell into place…"

"You idiot. Oh gawd…well, you really set yourself up for a hard fall, honey." She sniffed, wiped her face again and straightened on the stool. "Alex is kind of a whore and I say that with all sorts of love for him."

Clark looked devastated. "Pete said the same thing, sort of. It's true?"

She nodded, wiped her nose. "Yeah. Pete'd know first-hand. Alex is a great guy but comes to sex, he's a tramp. Again, with love."

Clark took her hand and pulled her to her feet, into a hug that at first she resisted and then, with a little groan, melted into. "Hate you so much," she muttered into the warm acre of his chest.

"I know," he said again and smoothed the escaped strands of her bob behind her ears, and kissed her forehead. She smiled—and frowned.

"Knock it off, you big sap." She grabbed her purse from the counter, and Clark pushed his hand in his pocket and pulled out a few bills.

"I'm springing for this, okay?" He hesitated and snatched a last bit of sugar-syrup covered crust from the plate. She rolled her eyes at him.

The soda jerk came over and slid the bill across the counter to them, watching Clark. Chloe saw that he'd written a telephone number across the bottom. He whispered only loud enough for Clark and Chloe to hear. "If that guy don't work out, I'd love to help…"

"Jesus! This city's chock full of fairies!" Chloe grabbed Clark by the sleeve and stormed out of the drugstore.

@@@

They were walking arm in arm, and Chloe had almost decided to forgive Clark. "Clark, really. Alex…you know I love him, but he will break your heart."

"Not if I don’t sleep with him, he won't."

She stopped abruptly and looked up into Clark's serious face. "Hunh. Well, you're pretty damn good at that, I'll grant you." she said, and managed to keep the bitterness almost completely out of her voice.

Clark flushed a little and pushed on. "Pete said he only sleeps with a person once. So if I don't sleep with him..." He shrugged and smiled.

Chloe stared and after a moment she said, "Ooooh, got it—flaunt it around until he comes crawling after you on his knees begging for it. Smart, that—you'll for sure hook 'em and reel him in like a flounder."

Clark blinked. "Well…I hadn't meant that exactly, but yes…I guess that is a plan." He looked askance at Chloe, as if seeing her for the first time.

"What? Hurry up; we've got to get to the Al-Kazar before Walt blows his top. And we have to stop at the cleaners on the way; I gotta pick up my gown."

Clark nodded. "I can't believe tonight is New Year’s Eve."

Chloe glared at him, her mouth turned down and if she could have she'd have shot flame from her eyes—it made her hopping mad to feel them well up again. "Oh, _thanks_ loads for reminding me _again_ that I got _dumped_ for New Year's Eve—yay for Chloe Sullivan."

"Oh crap…Chloe…"

"Shut up. Walk. I'll get over it, eventually. It'll help if you pay for my cleaning, you louse."

"Anything for you, Chloe. Anything."

@@@

Clark was happy. For the first time since he'd left Smallville, he was really… happy. Not even guilt about Chloe could squash this warm feeling. He shimmied into the only underwear he had left, an old fashioned union suit, and swore he'd do laundry that week—tomorrow—no putting it off this time. If his mother knew that he was wearing something she wouldn't put the dog's dinner in…tomorrow he'd do laundry for sure. At least he still had clean socks, he thought, and dropped to his bed to pull them on. He yanked a sweater over his head, and slid into a pair of grey flannel pants…slowed to admire the evening wear hanging from the clothes hook. He might look any average joe right now, but he was going to look snazzy tonight. Just like Fred Astaire. He wondered if Alex liked Fred Astaire….

The shirt glowed snow-white under the black coat; the strip of bowtie looped around the collar gleamed like onyx. Alex had been after him ever since Walt lent him the money to buy his first suit to let him buy another for him, and Clark had finally agreed because now, he knew what Alex really meant. Not just, "Let me buy you a suit." He meant, "I care for you and I don’t have a lot of ways to show it, so let me do this for you." And that's what finally let him say yes—yes to the suit and if he got lucky that way too, yes to the man.

He fastened up the rest of the union suit's buttons, and tossed the suit pants on the bed. He trained his heat vision on his hand until it felt warm, then quickly whisked his palm over the hanger crease. "Ta-Da!" He grinned at his freshly pressed pants, and laid them to one side.

The sound of premature celebration brought him to the window. He peered out to the street; it seemed his neighbors were starting to celebrate the New Year a few hours early.

He leaned on the window sill and watched the commotion below with a rueful wince. There was nothing he could do at the moment—he just hoped they'd refrain from killing each other until after the show tonight. His gaze lifted from the street, out over the rooftops and as the stars wink alive one by one, he smiled. He watched for a bit, caught up in his thoughts before shaking himself—getting late. He hurried to finish dressing, slicked his hair back and took a tiny bottle from his bedside table. He dribbled a bit of fluid from it and rubbed it along his jaw, sniffed appreciatively. Smelled good—like sandalwood. He hoped Alex liked it. He stopped…smiled. Here he was, on the eve of something big, something he knew was going to change his life, and change Alex's life, he hoped. He took a small, flat bottle of whiskey from his pantry/cupboard, held it up to the light with a smile. He'd bought it for company, as in Alex coming to visit again. Someday soon, hopefully. In the meantime….

He poured a tiny bit, the amber tinted liquid barely covering the bottom of his glass. He raised it, with a small smile said, "Here's to 1938. It's going to be a good year—I _know_ it."

@@@


	9. Chapter 9

"All right, all right, quit muggin', ya mooks, we ain't got all night." Walt sighed and leaned against the music stand. "Are you ready?

The guys were frisking, playing off each other, trying to top each other. Chloe was scatting with the melodies that flipped and wavered in the air and she danced while she sang along, flipping her wide skirt around her knees in a mock flapper style dance. The guys were laughing, and Clark was grinning, tapping his feet and watching her from his perch on the edge of the stage. "Swing, Chloe, swing!" She twirled around and around until she fell against him with a wide grin, twined her arms around his neck and finished up with a hammy wink.

The band riffed and rambled, and suddenly Pete jumped up from the piano bench—pounded the keys as he broke into a corny old folk song, _Little Brown Jug—_ Pete jazzed it up with a roadhouse roll and the guys picked it up and chugged along. Walt threw up his hands and let them go at it. "Gwan, get it out your systems—kee-rist." He lit a cigarette and settled a long suffering look on his face…but he was tapping right along with the beat.

The fast, pounding beat gave the old tune a different sound—new, exciting—and Alex jumped up on the stage, stood next to Pete and let the clarinet swing out. Pete shouted out the chorus, the rest of the band right with him. It was fast, it was fun and totally infectious. Walt was tapping his feet and frowning, writing on the pad laying on the stand.

Clark startled everyone by leaping off the stage and into a silly dance, and then, bursting into song—he knew all the words. At the chorus, he grabbed Chloe's hands and they started a gallumping dance all about the room, singing, _"Ha-ha ha, you and me, little brown jug, don’t I love thee—"_

Alex watched the two singers act out, eyes narrowed. When Clark and Chloe came dancing close to them, he laid the clarinet on the piano and grabbed Clark away from Chloe, swung him in a big circle and trapped him in his arms. He began dancing, pulling Clark along. Clark looked shocked and then—delighted. He laughed and began singing again, while the guys laughed and played on.

"Okay, okay, let's go—cool out, everybody, let's get with the program—leading off sweet and then we swing hot, and close out with _Green Eyes_ —what, Clark?"

"How about _When or Where?"_ He glanced down into Alex's eyes with a small smile.

Walt growled, "How about I kick your ass to the moon? What the hell was all the pissin' and moanin' about? Now you wanna sing—Alex. Hold me back, I might strangle—we ain't ready to change."

Alex smiled and stepped back from Clark. "No, I think that we can do this…" 

He crossed to the piano, smiled down at Pete, who held the clarinet out to him. He took it up, licked his lips slowly, lipped the mouthpiece, all the while, his eyes on Clark. Clark watched him, his own mouth slightly parted, eyes widening and then dropping a bit. He nodded when Alex said softly, "Let's go…"

Alex closed his eyes, the sound he made started low, slowly the notes spiraled up and up until it became too sweet to hear, and broke, and then swooped low, stole around the melody the band played. Clark's heart thumped listening to Lex; his cheeks grew pink listening to Lex's heart as he played. When he began singing, he closed his own eyes, and kept his back to Alex…

"All right, all right, we'll close with that— _Green Eyes_ right before and if anyone changes anything else, they're outa here. Now, take that from the top, and Chloe, let me see you over here a minute…"

@@@

They broke up, and Walt yelled, "Be back here at nine," and was treated to various forms of profane agreement. Chloe hugged Clark and said something, grabbed her coat, winked at Alex, blew him a kiss and was gone, and then it was only Alex and Clark.

"So, are you going to wear the suit tonight?" Alex asked, in a casual way that might have fooled Clark a few months ago, but not now. Now, he figured he was an expert at Alex.

"Of course. It's in the big dressing room, waiting to make me look like Fred Astaire." Alex made a little face, and Clark quickly said, "Cary Grant?"

Alex laughed. "We'll see. Personally, I think Grant would lamp you and wish he could look as classy." Clark grinned happily at the compliment. They walked into the dressing room and Alex smiled at the suit carefully hung away from the others, freshly polished shoes under it.

"Where's yours?"

He glanced down and away, not meeting Clark's eyes. "Changing at home, taking a cab back." He leaned against the counter that ran the length of one wall. He stared at the row of suits and gowns the club's dancers would be wearing come evening, not really seeing much more than light gleaming off the sequins and beads on the costumes…

"Oh." Clark stared at the floor, watching his feet as he coincidently meandered closer and closer. He leaned on the counter too, a few feet from Alex, and scooted down the length of it until he was coincidently bumping shoulders and hips with Alex and Alex sighed, shook his head—grabbed Clark. He kissed him and Clark gratefully gave in. He let Alex press until he opened his mouth, and the cool then warm, touch of his tongue to Clark's was electric. Clark felt warmer and warmer, his lips opening, wanting more…it was as good as the last kiss, better…even better was the touch of Alex's hands. They slid his polo shirt out of his waistband, and inched under it—naked hands on his naked back—the thought made him shudder. He blushed—he was getting stiff again. He twisted his hips a little, trying to move his erection away from Alex and brushed against his hip instead—Clark moaned, and buck slightly against him. Alex blew out a soft laugh against Clark's ear, and cupped his hip, holding him still. "Shhhh, Clark…"

Clark felt frustrated—Alex was always trying to make him be quiet—he wanted to yell, to shout how good it all felt. "Alex, oh, I wanted to kiss you so bad. I've been thinking about it, kissing you, touching you…" 

Alex moaned something that might have been yes, bit at his neck. Clark groaned and pushed against Alex until they touched everywhere, each part of one fitting into the other like a puzzle. Clark was lost in the perfect way they fit together. Clark's shirt was pulled over his head, shoved behind his neck, Alex's was open to his belt, no undershirt beneath it and Clark moaned as he smoothed his palm over Alex's glistening chest…he pinched pink nipples carefully, until Alex ground against him. 

"Stop!"

Clark whispered sorry and to make up for it, leaned close and licked Alex's nipples, soothed them—again Alex moaned, "Stop, stop." But his hands slipped between them and wrestled Clark's buttons open, his pants dropped to his calves. Alex sighed happily and palmed Clark, squeezed him…the thin material of the union suit let him wrap his hand around Clark, jerk him slowly.

Clark groaned against the slide of cotton and the pressure on him, the amazing feel of Alex almost, almost holding him in his hand and then, Alex was on his knees, gazing at the heavy sway of Clark's cock beneath the thin, wet cotton. A dark spot outlined the tip and he bent to press a kiss there, the tip of his tongue dancing over it to taste, caress. 

Clark cried out, and tried hard not to think about what Alex was doing, so afraid of coming, trying to push the over-whelming feeling away. Alex bit down gently, just holding the thick heat between his teeth, tongue outlining what he could, and Clark moaned, his hips jerked…Alex smiled up at him and pulled the sides of the material apart, and licked what he could between the buttons and Clark's knees gave. Alex maneuvered flesh and material until the tip of Clark's cock was between his lips, and he sucked out the drops that had collected there. Clark shouted, "Alex, Alex, Lex—Lex!" his cock pushed, strained against the trap of cotton, he was going to come, now, right…right… he jerked away. "No!"

Quick as a shot, Alex rose in one graceful move from the floor, in seconds he was standing, walking away from Clark, he was tucking, smoothing, pulling a mask over his face, until only damp pink cheeks gave away that he'd been so affected by Clark…"Of course, it was too much, too fast. I'm sorry. I'd never force anything on you…I'm sure Chloe's waiting."

"No, that's not what I meant, not _stop,_ just…" Clark's chest heaved, and he groaned. "Not on the floor in this dirty room. I'm probably being corny, but I want clean sheets, and time and room, and to hold you, to—to love you the—the right way—"

Alex released his iron control so suddenly he nearly fell. He gasped, "Oh! Oh, yes, me too," he babbled, "I want space, and—and sheets, and—breakfast in bed and. Shit, all that corny stuff. I want it too."

Clark rushed forward, grabbed Alex and pulled him close. Kissed him hard. "Then tonight, okay, tonight, after the show, we'll do all that, and have all that. Lex, Alex, I love you," he crowed, and was gone like he'd never been there at all. Alex stood alone in the middle of the dressing room, his hands out, mouth open in shock, and the words he'd been trying to speak tumbled out.

"…but not tonight, Clark it can't be tonight. It can't…"

_Glen Miller recorded[Little Brown Jug](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FENrd7QRRIg) in 1939. I'm pretending that Walt's band played it first._

@@@

The lights lowered, the blue spot washed the center of the stage. It was quiet for a moment and then, Walt inclined his head a little towards Clark and Chloe. They strolled up to the microphone, Chloe's hand resting on his arm. He smiled down at her and began crooning, _"Green eyes, these cool and limpid green eyes…"_

He sang it slowly, seriously, looking at no one but her...staring into her eyes and...she knew it was how the bit went, how Walt had staged it....but she found a tiny corner of herself wishing again, hoping again. Maybe…maybe he'd changed his mind; maybe he'd discovered he was wrong about Alex and wrong about her. When it was her turn to sing, he gave the impression that he could barely keep from sweeping her into his embrace.

Chloe felt heat race up her spine, settle in her cheeks—she drank in that transformation, the stage magic that turned a daffy, sweet farmer from Kansas into a green-eyed tall drink of water who was _every_ inch a man. His eyes gleamed, and he smiled as wide as a Kansas mile, and then edged just a bit away from her. Walt cocked his head again, and Chloe dipped slightly, Clark bowed his head, and they both faded into the background. She perched on her chair, and he on his, and they turned to watch Alex blow, and Clark…Clark was transformed from her C.C. into something…primitive. Such a look of raw desire…she wondered if she should nudge him…it was obvious, too obvious, that he wanted Alex.

Wanted Alex. She dropped her eyes, and felt them fill. It was true. There was no denying it—and she hated it. She felt stupid and childish for feeling that way, but for these few minutes, she felt she earned the right to indulge herself. She glanced over at Alex, and he seemed oblivious to the star-struck look on Clark's face. His grey eyes were closed anyway. She felt good about it—and felt bad about feeling good about it. Blue light flowed and shifted over Alex as he swayed in time to the music, eyes closed tight as he plucked the sweet notes from the air. He dropped his clarinet, nodded at the audience when they burst into applause, and stepped back. He looked angry. Whatever he'd aimed for, he hadn't hit it. It had to be something only he was looking for, Chloe thought, because the crowd really liked what he'd given them. She turned, and was horrified to catch Clark's eyes on her, brow furrowed with concern. He started to rise, but Walt growled at him, and he dropped back down. Chloe forced a big smile and a wink. It hurt. Not even the clanging of the bells at twelve, the confetti and balloons that fell from the ceiling eased the pain that clamped about her heart. Happy folk bellowed," Happy New Year," and she didn’t give a good goddamn, kisses and hugs were tossed out all over the dance floor, and she nursed her heartbreak through it all…until she saw Alex breeze by all of them without a word, right out of the club with that bum Mahaney's bodyguard trailing behind him.

Chloe knew that her 'heartbreak' had been pique and nothing more, because she saw the real deal. One look at Clark's face, and she knew what heartbreak really was.

@@@

Clark sat back, and sighed. Blue light flowed and shifted over Alex as he swayed in time to the music, eyes closed…he dropped his clarinet, nodded at the audience when they burst into applause and stepped back. He looked like a storm cloud—whatever it was about his performance, it must have been something only Alex felt—the crowd loved it and he'd thought it was pretty darn perfect. He turned to get Chloe's eye roll, but she was staring at him…looking like she was about to cry. What happened? He started to rise, but Walt growled at him and he dropped back down and pasted a smile on his mug, exactly like the smile Chloe wore now. Guilt nibbled at him…it was because of him she looked like that. His fault. He felt a little of the thrill, the anticipation fade. He felt like a terrible louse, looking forward to the best night of his life, and here Chloe was alone, and miserable. Damn it.

@@@

1938 had been ushered in, and the evening was their own now…the club was drifting towards closing, most of the guests were leaving, a few were still dancing to the canned music that played while the band broke down.

Clark was vibrating—Alex. His…his…Lex. He smiled as he waited by the stage for Alex to return, trying to decide where was the best place to go, his room or Alex's apartment? Probably Alex's. His…Clark could feel the top of his ears blaze hot at the thought…his bed was bigger and…and he didn’t have to go out into the hall for the bathroom. Well, it was just…practical. Clark grinned to himself—and there, there was Alex.

Clark beamed, took a step forward, and Wade Mahaney's bodyguard was suddenly behind him. Alex gave Clark a brief look, veered away from the stage and was gone. Clark stared, open-mouthed in disbelief…he could feel the blood that had been warming his cheeks draining away, leaving him cold and weak.

Wade…Alex just left to be with that low rent version of George Raft _again._ Stood him up for that—that—thug! Why?

He stared at the doorway Alex had just walked out, wishing that he could see just where he was going, what he was doing… _why_ /he was doing it…he felt like he was being ripped in half. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath…when he opened his eyes again; Chloe was leaning on the edge of the stage. _Don’t speak, don’t speak…_ he pleaded with her silently. She sighed and cocked a hip against him, but said not a word.

Walt strolled over, and pressed a brotherly kiss to her cheek. "Happy New Year, doll face. I'm about to get so drunk I won’t remember my name, let alone it's 1938—whadya say?"

Chloe looked up at him. "Are you asking me on a…to join you?"

"Hell no, I'm asking you to ride shotgun—keep me alive—you know."

Alto sax sauntered over to them. "Walt, old pal, if you don't go for that Battle of the Bands in New Orleans this summer, we're gonna have to kill you. We were so hot, the stage was smokin'. Tell me we're not ready."

Drums leaned over Alto's shoulder. "Yeah, Alex has been needling you and you ain't sayin' nothin'—we gotta give it a go, man. Hell, we're shoe-ins to win!"

Pete agreed. "Walt—do it man. Stop holding yourself back. Am I right, Clark?"

Pete looked a little too sympathetic, there was a hint of pity in his voice when he spoke and Clark kind of wanted to either run away, or belt Pete one. Clark knew Pete had an idea what had just happened, as did Chloe…he felt a little stupid, a bit of a joke. Ah well... "Lex knows what he's talking about, Mr. Walt. He's a very smart guy. Listen to him. He—he wouldn't steer _you_ wrong." Chloe squeezed his arm and Walt looked thoughtful.

I'll—yeah—I'll think about it, C.C.. Thanks."

"Hey, we're heading over to Royal's club—the guy my brother works for?" Pete said as he shrugged his jacket on, chattered away as if he was trying to distract Clark from Alex leaving. "—was a speakeasy back in the day and Royal hasn’t changed it much—it makes him money and Royal says that's all that counts, cash rules everything. But he takes care of Simon pretty good, and we look the other way if he's not exactly…C.C.? Clark…?"

Clark wiped at his eyes and laughed shortly. "I'm all right—smoke. It bothers me sometime."

Chloe leaned on him on sympathy. Walt looked the two of them up and down, his eyes tightened a little. "Everything okay—you two—I kinda got the idea—never mind," he muttered and turned. Pete was right there, yanking him towards the door at the same time.

"We're going out together—me and Saint Clark and Chloe. You gotta go too, Walt. It's New Year’s Eve, bad luck to go out with an uneven amount of people. How 'bout you make us lucky?"

Chloe gave him a look and Clark leaned over and whispered to Pete, "Since when?" 

Pete whispered back, "Since someone who is your boss doesn’t have the balls to get his own girl." Clark grinned.

"What's the word, Walt? You coming with me and Saint Clark?" Pete asked

Walt glanced at Chloe, and she gave him a dazzling smile. "Well, Walt's already asked me on a date, haven't ya?"

He swallowed and grinned from ear to ear, stammered, "I—I—heck, I guess! Yeah, we're coming with!"

"Okee-doke." Pete jerked his head. "Let's beat feet, cats. The night's not getting any younger."

@@@

Royal's place was like stepping into another world for Clark. He felt clumsy, stupid and really—awfully white. He glanced around nervously, waiting to be told to leave…until a beautiful coffee-colored girl pulled him out on the floor. He danced—badly—but she laughed and made him laugh, and before he knew it, he was only thinking about how much fun he was having. He kept passing Pete, who was dancing with a tiny girl who seemed to have her cap set for him…poor little thing, he thought. He imagined Alex here, how beautiful he'd look dancing with the girl he was holding in his arms now. He knew Alex would find her beautiful, the way he'd found Pete to be. Why…did he not go with Pete again, if he went with Mahaney more than once? Pete was so much better looking…Clark swallowed hard, and blinked, and the girl he was dancing with frowned slightly and tapped his cheek. "You okay, beau?" She asked. Pete passed again, hesitated, and asked him the same.

"Copacetic, gate." Clark replied and Pete laughed along with Clark's dance partner.

"Dig this hepcat, willya?" he said to no one in particular, but he sounded fond and Clark smiled.

Chloe came up behind him, a sweat-damp Walt in tow, both of them grinning like mad. "Say, Pete, don't you think old C.C. there needs another hot slice of the Metropolis pie?"

Pete looked at Clark, and smiled wryly. "I guess. Tighten up your belt, C.C.—laissez les bon temps rouler!"

@@@

They took a cab to a district he'd never been before, got out before a big stone house, and headed into the alleyway, down a flight of stairs to a basement. The door was a throwback to the speakeasies that had flourished in the neighborhood, but the eye in the little inset door that flew back at Pete's knock was rimmed in green and purple and black, looked almost like the eye in a peacock's tail feather.

They were let in and Clark was overcome by the difference in this club…there was a little band on the stage, chugging away—an all girl's orchestra. It was dark, candles and a few weak spots the only light. He stared openly, his cheeks bright red, flushed down to his neck…Oh. Wow. Gosh. Men were dancing with men, women were dancing with women. He glanced at Pete, who looked a little worried and a little nervous. "Clark…"

Clark shook his head as he looked around. "…'m fine…" So, was this part of what it meant to be in love with Alex? Their's was a whole other world that he had no idea how to navigate. Even Walt and Chloe seemed more comfortable here than he did. He swallowed…okay; it was no different than Royal's place, right? He could do this too.

Walt and Chloe were gone, off in their own world, and that was great…he smiled. At least the New Year was bringing in something good for somebody…and for two people who really deserved it. He was startled out of his thoughts by warm lips pressed to his jaw.

"Happy New Year, sweet thing. Need any help bringing it in right?"

The person was short and…colorful. Very colorful. Clark smiled, and thanked…her, and backed away slightly. Okay…this was definitely a different world, oh, yes. Pete was busy talking to other friends, Chloe and Walt were God knows where…he was about to grab his coat and leave when a guy who looked just a little like Alex, if Alex had had messy brown hair, swung around and bumped into him. "Ow. Now you owe me a dance—that hurt." He rubbed his arm with a frown, and Clark panicked, fell all over himself apologizing. The guy laughed, his blue eyes twinkled in an interesting way.

"Hey, I was only kidding…but not about the wanting to dance part. Whatya say?"

His friends were off, paying no attention to him, the man was nice, and he was good-looking and Alex was off with some jerk even though he'd promised to be with him…pretty much. All the anger, all the injustice and hurt that Clark had been hugging to himself all night came to a head, and somehow, he was in a cab with the guy and headed home….

 

The two of them made their way up the stairs to his room, and he fished around in his pocket for keys. He tilted his head forward, and shocked himself when a tear rolled down his cheek and hit his hand.

Grant looked full of sympathy. He leaned on the wall next to the door. "Hey, the mood's taken a plunge since we got out of the cab…want to talk about it? I'm a great kisser, but I'm not bad at listening either. Really."

"No…no, I'm okay." Clark blushed and fumbled the key into the lock. He dropped it, leaned down to grab it and found himself eye level with Grant's crotch.

"Ah…say kid, don’t stay down there too long. Not out here anyway…" Clark flinched away, and stood again. His hand trembled trying to get the key into the lock, and Grant's closed over it. "Let me help. I don’t think I could take you dropping it again."

Grant's hand was warm and almost as big as his. His fingers curved around Clark's, his thumb stroked against the ball of Clark's thumb… Clark's breath hitched; his heart beat a little faster. Grant was closer, and Clark didn’t remember him moving. Suddenly the smell of him was everywhere, and it was…nice. Like hair oil, spice, and starched cotton and something else he couldn't place. Clark gasped a little—Grant had squeezed his hand, whispered, "Let me in, Clark."

Clark looked at him, not sure if he meant just what he said, or something else. Something more. Grant's eyes were wide, his pupils were huge and black, and drawing him in, pulling him close…Clark felt like he was in a dream. Like he was moving through a lake of molasses. "Okay. Come in." Clark didn’t recognize his own voice; it sounded weak, strange…"Come in."

Grant smiled and they backed into the door, and Clark's heart was beating so hard, he thought maybe Grant heard it. The minute the door shut, he knew without a doubt, he wanted Grant out of his room, him being there was wrong, and it was something he'd regret and it needed to stop, now. Grant moved towards Clark, his smile was sharp as a knife; he hooked a finger into Clark's waistband, looked up at and opened his mouth—

 _knock knock_ "Clark? Are you in there?"

Clark gasped and sagged. "It's Chloe—my—my— _girlfriend!_ "

Grant gaped. "Girlfriend? Are you serious…really?"

Clark nodded frantically. "We—we had a fight earlier, that's why—" Clark thought frantically—there was nothing about what he was saying that made sense and he cursed his inability to come up with a reasonable explanation as to _why?_ "I'm sorry, but could you please leave, she's my girlfriend and…"

Grant looked disbelieving but when Clark opened the door, pulled Chloe in, and kissed her like his life depended on it, Grant laughed a little at the obvious display.

"Tell you what, Clark. If you ever decide what it is you really want, come and see me." He stopped at the door and said, "Someone broke your heart tonight, and I have the feeling it wasn't your 'girlfriend'." 

He smiled sadly and left. Clark closed the door, and sagged against it. Guilt, he was building a damn tower of guilt brick by brick…and now, he'd have to deal with Chloe. Life was…not that great.

"What the hell Clark—" she gasped. She was pink and damp, wide-eyed with surprise—and then was herself again, eyes narrowing, her little hands curled into fists. "What the hell, Clark?"

"I know—I know! I'm awfully sorry—that guy. I didn't know how else to get rid of him."

Chloe eyed him skeptically. "Yeah, well…Walt and me were worried, that's why we came looking when we lost you at the club. Pete said you could take care of yourself…but I had a feeling. Looks like I was right." She rubbed lightly at her mouth, her eyes pinned him and he was glad that he was pretty much unbreakable.

"I'm sorry—and I'll stop apologizing but please, don’t tell Pete what really happened. Let him think that…that…"

Chloe gaped— "Why?" and suddenly understood. "Oo—oh, okay. But…okay. Let me go on record saying, that? Is the stupidest idea I've ever heard, but." She shrugged, as if to say Clark was a mystery at the best of times. "You all right?"

He sighed, and shrugged himself. "Sure. I'm fine…you know."

"C.C., um, Walt's with the cab and the meter's running—"

"And so should you," Clark smiled. "Go, on—and happy New Year." He shut the door and leaned against it. _I should…go to bed. I'll go to bed. Or maybe walk around a little first._

@@@

Okay, so last night had been a bust and wasn't like she didn’t know it was going to be bad but she hadn't expected it to be _that_ bad…Clark had been so gone, he'd nearly made it obvious to everyone with eyes that he had it bad for Alex. It was one thing for people to know, it was another entirely for them to _know._ She'd had to practically feel the sap up to throw whoever might be eyeballin' him off the scent. She sniffed, once, hard, because no matter what she's told him and herself—she'd really had hopes. Real hopes, for—for the whole caboodle, kids and the picket fence and—and. It was just that Clark was so…good. She'd wanted him for that too, that he was so good, he made a body feel like a decent being just…fuck, just being near him and that was stupid. She was stupid. She yanked her dressing gown belt so tight, she made herself squeak, grabbed a huge dollop of cold cream from the vanity counter and started working on the last night's leftover war paint, sneering at herself in the mirror as she did. Here she was again, going on about herself. Whatever she felt was nothing compared to that wide open, shattered look of pain on Clark's face. Shit—she'd warned him that Alex was ruled by the territory below his belt…but Mahaney? She didn’t get it either. Alex had to know Clark was waiting for him to—

 

"You're pretty." a voice said behind her and she jumped. Walt! She'd forgotten he was still here, trying to suck up enough java to make it home in one piece…she'd pooh-poohed the idea and told him he could bunk on the couch but geez—this was her _bathroom,_ not her darn living room.

"When I said for you to get comfortable, lounging around with me in my robe in the bathroom wasn't quite what I meant," she said, rubbing white circles into her cheeks. "And what d'ya mean pretty? Are you tryin' to rag me?"

"No, Chloe. You're pretty. I mean, with the paint or not, you're just…" he shrugged. "I like looking at you."

She grinned in her mask of white cream. "Sure you do. You know, I was beginning to think as much time as you spend with Alex, that C.C. wasn't the only one who had it for him…"

Walt blushed hard and laughed ruefully. "No! Maybe—maybe—a tiny little bit?" And rushed on at Chloe's shocked look "—not much but—you. Wow, you—never cared about anyone as much as for you—and just so's you know, I'm not still drunk."

Chloe gaped—and blinked hard, rushed to rinse her face. No way should a guy say something like that to a girl with her puss full of Pond's. "Walt…wow. All right stranger, what have you done with my Walt? You gotta be drunk!"

"Your Walt. I like the sound of that." He grinned and rubbed the back of his neck. "Well since I ain't gotta worry about C.C. getting in the way, I thought—"

She reached behind her and grabbed the edge of the sink to keep from swaying, sudden rage made her nearly faint. "That I was a sure bet, on the rebound? Ready to fall for any old line? Think I was gonna fall back with my skirt over my head, hunh?"

Walt looked at her, horrified. "Chloe—no! I—I've thought you were swell since the first moment I saw you, but you never looked my way. I—you know me better. I thought."

She let out a long breath…and relaxed. She said, "Oh for—shit. I'm sorry, Walt. I guess I do know better. Mind you, I think you're cute too, but C.C. just kind of appeared and." She sighed. "I fell for him hard Walt, I won’t lie. I'm still kind of…carrying a torch, I guess."

Walt nodded. "I'm not asking you for instant—you know. Just that you know I'm here. If you ever think—you'd want to see. Me."

Chloe looked into his sweet earnest face, his big brown eyes…she reached up and ruffled his hair. "You! You’re a sweetie, that you are. Tell you what, run out and get us something to eat, and I'll clean up out here and we can talk. About anything _but_ Alex, or Clark."

"Amen to that, sister, amen to that."

@@@

Alex walked out as fast as he could to avoid Walt, and especially to avoid Clark. He couldn't explain to Clark why he needed to do this…he didn't want to explain. Clark wouldn't care or understand how important it was to him that he'd done something for a friend…that Jules was in his life again….

He was in the Cadillac alone except for Wade's bodyguard, a guy taller than Clark and twice as broad, with such a profound lack of personality that Alex had taken to calling him Wallman in his head. Never once had Wade referred to the man by name…Alex wondered if he even had a name. Maybe he was some kind of Frankenstein's Monster, created just to make the people around Wade uncomfortable. Wallman gave no sign he noticed Alex's scrutiny, he sat statue still on the fold-down seat across from him, as silent as the grave. Alex wrapped himself up in his overcoat and pulled his hat low over his eyes. His nerves were on edge, screeching with unease, and the presence of the bodyguard was doing nothing to ease his odd sense of coming disaster. 

_What's eating you, Lex? Straighten up…_ This whole thing was no big deal, no worse because it was New Year's Eve. No worse because he really wanted to be somewhere else. An hour or two of Wade was hardly the end of the world, just a fucking lousy beginning to the New Year. That's what it was, this sense of unease…disappointment in having to stand up Clark.

He compared Wade, all tight, dark, silent menace, with his dragon eyes—always trying so hard to be clean, spotless—with Clark, who just _was_ without trying. Clean, and fresh…he was a fresh breeze, blowing through the grimy streets of Metropolis, lighting up its shadow clotted corners like the sun come to earth…Oh my God… he rolled his eyes. Fuck, that was sappy. He grinned wryly to himself. And a prime example of why he wasn't a lyricist. He glanced over at Wallman, who smirked when he caught Alex's eyes. The feeling of impending disaster he'd almost talked himself out of tugged at him again.

The Cadillac came to a stop at the curb, idling as Wallman got out, his breath steaming in the icy chill. He turned to give Alex a hand out of the sedan, and was pointedly ignored; he smiled and moved aside. Alex frowned and hurried to the apartment lobby. Better to go with it, get it over quickly. Hs mind was on the end of the evening. He considered calling Beebs in the morning, he thought with longing about spending the day with someone safe, someone he could count on to be just what they said they were. He wondered if there was any chance Clark would talk to him…ever again.

In the apartment, Wade sent him to shower, as always. It was okay; Wade had a great shower, lots of hot water and soap, and fat, soft Turkish towels.

After his shower, Wade called him into the bedroom. He walked in, dropped the towel and Wade told him to lie on the bed face down, and starting rubbing his shoulders, talking about his day. Wonderful. It was one of those evenings that started off with Wade feeling chatty, domestic…which was actually good; it generally meant an average evening. Quick, uneventful—home before daylight. 

Wade stroked him, from the nape of his neck, around his shoulders, down his spine, rubbing, kneading. Alex groaned. It did feel good…Wade dipped his head, kissed and bit the curve of his ass, gently. Alex's stomach tightened, lurched. He waited. This time he didn’t get the painful bite he expected, this time, it was a sharp sting, and then the velvet wet swipe of Wade's tongue. Seconds later, a sudden burning sensation swept out from where Wade had licked—turned to warmth as it spread.

"What did you do…" Alex felt his joints loosen; his muscles turn to taffy….

Wade massaged his ass, squeezing, pressing... "Twilight sleep, ever hear of it? They mix some stuff up, makes you…relax. Makes you open. Something different. Celebrate the New Year with..." Wade dragged clawed fingers down Alex's ribs and he moaned in pain, his head felt too heavy to move. The door clicked and Alex could see Wallman from the corner of his eye. "We’re ready," Alex heard Wade say.

Alex felt like he was wrapped in hot Turkish towels, wrapped up, stifling, hot…sound wavered in and out and finally the garbled noise leveled out into a song he remembered. He drifted in and out...the radio… _Gennie, tune in the radio_

_Tune in the radio properly; it's all static…_

_*Bluebirds_  
Singing a song  
Nothing but bluebirds  
All day long…* 

_Let me sing this to you, darling. Lay your head in my lap and I'll sing to you…_

_*Never saw the sun shining so bright_  
Never saw things going so right  
Noticing the days hurrying by  
When you're in love, my how they fly…* 

"Damn it…" Alex groaned. He was back in the apartment, and the hand tracing his lip was small and blocky, silver rings on the fingers clicked against his teeth…

_Lex, dearest, really—don't cry. Didn’t you like it? You said you did before…please don't cry, you make me sad. Here, drink this—-it's hot milk and honey and just a bit of rum. It will make you feel…_

"Better, Alex? You look like you like it." Alex opened his eyes and was staring at the lights in the coffered ceiling, deeply confused. When did he get here? A hand circled his prick, and slowly pulled upwards, a sharp tongue tickled and stabbed the skin, teeth nibbled gently and he spread his legs, lifted…

_Lex, come read this essay. Clever isn’t it?_

_He smiled up into the face above his. It is good. Bruce is good at everything._

_A soft hand cupped his cheek…Mmm. He's not as beautiful as you. You are my angel. Soft lips touched his, a velvety smooth tongue parted his lips…I love you, angel…_

His thick prick was bumping and nudging at his mouth, something was moving between his legs, something hot and hard breeched him with a hard lunge. He cried out in pain.

"Shhh… don't cry, not yet…" Fire swept up his chest and curved around his heart.

Fire swept through him, he gasped and moaned, it hurts, _I don't think I…_

_Oh my dear, I can't stop now, wait a minute it will get better, I promise…_

Alex swam slowly awake. He knew what was happening, Wallman was fucking him, hard—he felt ripped apart, torn to rags. Wade spoke, said something to him…what? He rolled his eyes and tried to move but he was trapped, pinned…he felt Wallman's prick pull out, drag across his legs, leave a wet trail—he shook his head, no, that wasn't real, what was real was, real was—Wade fucking his mouth, and. Something was being shoved into him, big and painful and Wade pulled his prick away and laid down next to Alex.

"He's big. Just relax. It'll get better." Alex groaned. He felt a weird searing heat fill him, like burning crystal being poured inside him. Sparks shook him, Wallman brushed that spot over and over, the one that made him feel stars. That was real…

_Feel that, Angel, ah, I see you do. you look like a god, burning with the sun…Lex shook and groaned, he was hard as steel and Gennie kept stroking that spot, filling him with burning stars, the hand stroking his penis, pulling an orgasm from him and Lex felt like he was coming forever…_

Woke up shaking and screaming, and soaking the sheets…he smelled sweat and blood and come. Felt hot slick on the back of his neck and head, a steady licking rasp against his sticky skin, like a cat…"Clean him up Chauncey, that's a good boy…"

Chauncey? Alex giggled helplessly...Wallman, Chauncey…was…someday soon, a dead man...the next instant he howled in pain…smelled fresh blood and Wade was shushing him. But he was cutting him…maybe…kissing him and cutting…not sure, he couldn't keep up anymore.

_Alex opened his eyes; he was home, in Dad's office. Safe. Relief flooded him. He was dressed in his middle school uniform, he could tell by the color—navy and grey—long pants breaking over the wingtips he was so proud of…he was standing in front of Dad's desk, watching him write an address on a long cream envelope…Agnes came in and bobbed. "Mr. Lionel, a gentleman to see you, sir."_

_Lionel moved then, put down his pen, and rolled a blotter over the envelope. "Lex, why don’t you take the chair by my desk?" He rose and took Lex's hand like he was a child instead of almost a man and gently led him to the plush old fashioned chair by his desk. He pressed his shoulders down until Lex was sitting. Lex remembered being a little boy, watching his father work, sitting in the chair with his feet swinging, counting the brass nails outlining the fat arms. Now, he took up space, his head was even with the tall back and his feet touched the ground…._

_He crossed his legs and scratched at the velvet nap. He liked that chair. He looked at his father, who was looking back at him. He looked…sad…something, Lex wasn't certain what his father was thinking. His father bent suddenly and kissed the crown of his head, seemed about to speak—the doors to the study opened and it was Uncle Morgan and Gennie. He froze. Oh—_

_"Shit… he's bleeding a lot, ain't he, Boss? Should we—"_

_"Get me a towel, and some of that hooch. Help me roll him…"_

They cut him loose and Alex felt a sharp spear of pain that unrolled into a thundering wave. He was hissing and jerking in their hold and he wasn't sure what he was feeling and nothing seemed real. The pain kept slipping away, wiggling and sliding all over him and never settling in one spot and he wished it would stop.

_“Hello, Lex,” Gennie said, and he looked frightened—Lex saw it in his eyes and the tense, tight line of his jaw. Uncle Morgan made him sit._

_“Lionel, here's your gift. Where do we start?”_

_Dad asked, “Did this man hurt you?”_

_Lex didn't know what to say. He watched Gennie shrink inside himself and felt something horrible was coming._

"Alex." _Smack_ "Alex, wake up." 

Alex's eye's opened and Wade was looking down at him. "Good boy." He curled his hand under Alex's chin and tipped it up a bit, kissed the corner of his mouth. He stroked his face and looked content, satisfied, like a cat on the hearth. "You're a good boy."

"I…" His mouth was too dry and painful to talk, his head was too heavy to lift, his arms and legs hurt. Wade got up and moved away. Alex closed his eyes and again, someone was shaking him.

"Wake up…"

He groaned, tried to roll to his back but someone was touching him again…

_“You'll never touch another boy again, Reginald. You'll never get near another boy again…”_

"He's drunk. I don't do drunks." Alex felt hands pull at him, his eyelid pulled up and something dark swam into and out of his sight.

"I'm paying you for this. From where come these morals? Not exactly useful in a whore." Alex heard a sharp laugh, and shivered.

"You're right. You first?" He heard. It was too hard to open his eyes completely, he peered through his lashes. A tall dark shape dropped in front of Wade, he knew from the way Wade was standing, bent over slightly, that whoever it was, was blowing him. Alex's eyes dropped, he breathed through his mouth…a weight settled on his back, and a hot wet mouth was on his ear. "I'm sorry, I promise, you'll get payback. I promise, I'm sorry..." The voice kept on, encouraging, whispering, telling him how loved he was, how good, and Alex just—left again.

 _he remembered his father's eyes as he took up the knife from his desk, bore down on Gennie's face with it, at the last second the point landing against a high sharp cheekbone—he twisted and blood broke over the blade…Lex shoved fingers in his ears to block the sound—_  
"Lex? Lex, are you…shhh…"

Watching as Uncle Morgan's man broke Gennie's fingers, one by one, bent them back until they snapped like breadsticks. They split his lips, they broke a rib, they beat him and they let him go. He told Lex in between screams, I'm sorry. Sorry I hurt you, sorry I met you…

"I'm sorry I hurt you," a quick whisper in his ear and gone…

He was flying, flying high through the sky, dipping in and out of clouds and a lovely deep voce told him, "I will kill them all for you Lex, one day I will kill them for you…"

@@@

The persistent jangle of the alarm broke through a deep sleep, and Alex woke with a curse, and a groan. He rolled to his side and fished his hands out of the covers, flipping the alarm clock over trying to turn it off. He groaned again, and wiggled deeper into the blankets. A white hot flare shot through him—shit!—his ass was burning. His legs and shoulders, too. He felt like he'd gone a dozen too many rounds with Joe Louis in his sleep…what happened?

He moved, and his stomach flipped, and flipped…he tried to crawl out of the bed, the sheets rubbed his chest and he yelped. It stung. He pulled the covers away. He had cuts, a long shallow cut that circled one nipple and went down into the waist of his pajama bottoms. But what happened? He remembered getting out of the sedan with Wallman, and having…drinks with Wade? And then…he guessed he must have fallen asleep. Did Wade do this to him in his sleep? He would…maybe he slipped him a mickey, the fucking bastard.

He managed to get to his feet and staggered into the bathroom. He hurt all over, inside and out, and felt sick as a dog. Shit... Wade must have…done something. Something bad had happened to him. He clung to the sink and waited for the waves of nausea to wash away…he rubbed a hand over his sticky face, smelled a faint odor of roses. Wade. He had no idea what happened New Year's Eve, but he was sure of one thing—a growing feeling deep inside him told him—bring an end to this—this thing with Wade, whatever it took, however it happened, before it was too late.

_The song Reginald sings to young Lex,[Blue Skies](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=epRXoS_P0lk)_


	10. Chapter 10

He'd been wandering in and out of dark alleyways, leaping from rooftop to rooftop for a few hours, and so far the night had been pretty much uneventful. He'd helped a dog untangle itself from a wire fence, and brought some blankets to a squat in Suicide Slums…nothing special. It was almost unnaturally quiet, considering New Year's was winding down. He'd expected a lot more pickpocket activity, maybe some break-ins, but maybe everyone was home sleeping it off—maybe the hoods decided to give the city a break for one night.

"Help—hel—" Yeah, sure they did.

There was a thud like someone kicking a side of beef, and Clark homed in on the sound. He had too much experience with that particular noise not to know what it meant. His heart leaped as a fierce, joyful glow filled him. Now _this_ was just what he needed—working out some of the complicated tangle of his emotions on some lousy goon.

He zipped around a corner and saw what looked like a gangland murder in progress. It was dark—but not so dark he couldn’t see two guys on their knees, hands locked over their heads, necks exposed, and a third guy standing behind them—tall, almost as tall as him. The guy had a pair of flat, black guns trained on the backs of the kneeling men's heads. There was something about him that was familiar…the guns, the long black coat and flowing scarf…

"Hey!" Clark shot forward and the guy whirled around. Clark startled for a moment—the guy was wearing some kind of costume, maybe. A silky black mask obscured his eyes and partially covered an aquiline nose. His neck and chin were swathed in a long scarf that fell away as he whirled. Thick black hair fell over one eye…even masked, his chin hidden in collar and scarf, there was something in his face that radiated pure misery. He looked—devastated, like someone who'd lost everything. He seemed to be…be…

Clark squinted. The guy was crying?

The guy lifted a leather gloved hand and swiped at his face… the gun in the opposite hand never wavered in its aim. "Oh. It's you. Good, give me a hand. These jerks need a lesson. I'm still trying to decide if I should plug 'em or take 'em in." He laughed, wild and high, and the kneeling men shivered, and started to beg for their lives. He kicked them. "Shut up!"

"Hey, come on," Clark repeated. "Don't…whatya say we let the cops deal with them, okay? Don't…don’t be them. What's your name?" he asked, and held his hands out in a soothing way. "I'm Cla—I'm a friend."

The tall man laughed again, but this time it was a softer laugh, less uncontrolled. "Used that move on mad dogs, have you? Afraid I'll start foaming at the mouth? I know who you are, Angel. Better than that—I _know_ who you are. As for becoming them, it's too, too, late. I am one of them—have been. I just didn't know until tonight how much I was…" 

He stopped, and took deep, steadying breaths. When he could talk again he went on, seeming not to notice Clark was standing close to him. "I don't have a name," he said. He turned his head until his lips were almost at Clark's ear. "But you can call me Bruce," he whispered.

Clark felt a deep shiver go through him, but he didn’t pull away. He had a bone-deep feeling that this man was someone he could trust. That odd sense of familiarity touched him again. He studied the man—Bruce—and suddenly, started giggling.

Bruce glared at him. "What?" he asked sharply.

"The Shadow"? Clark bit his lip, trying not to giggle again and Bruce glared harder, his lip lifted in the beginning of a snarl…and finally huffed, a soft sound that morphed into a brief chuckle.

"All, right, all right. Shut the fuck up. I'm not tall enough to pull off Doc Savage, okay?" He shrugged and rewrapped the scarf. "I've got a day job…well; I guess it's a night job too. The people who employ me wouldn't like my hobby very damn much."

Clark nodded. He certainly understood that. He took a step towards the shivering hulks on the concrete. "Dips?" he asked.

"No. These guys are worse than fucking dips," Bruce replied, contempt for the thugs thickening his voice. "Dope dealers—garbage. More and more of the junk is moving into Metropolis. When Edge and his Gentlemen lost their bootlegging money, they figured to make it back with this—this poison." He nudged the back of their necks with the black guns, hard enough to make them wobble on their knees. Clark took a breath, ready to intervene. He could see roughing the mugs up—but killing them in cold blood? The idea made him queasy….

Bruce turned to him, and said, "Angel, I've been watching you; I know what you can do." He looked at the guns in his hands ruefully, came to some private decision. He tucked the guns away. "Take care of these bastards for me?"

The kneeling thugs moaned and babbled, certain they were about to be rubbed out—it's what they would have done. Bruce kicked them into silence again.

It wasn't that Clark couldn't understand the anger Bruce felt. He'd seen enough to know that the burden of drug addiction didn’t restrain itself to the addict, seen things that made his blood boil but still, killing people…he was glad Bruce seemed to make the other choice. "All right." He knocked them both out, letting Bruce see everything. He reached out, flicked his fingers against their skulls. Tap, tap, and they were out cold on the cobbles of the street.

Bruce whistled, and Clark blushed, smiled a little. "Someday, Angel, you're going to have to tell me how you do that—snazzy move."

Clark felt like he'd just gotten a medal and won a game show both. He took the hand extended to him and shook it, gazing into Bruce's face as he did. There was something about him, something familiar and not just that he was dressed up as a radio character even though he had very real guns tucked in the back of his pants…"You're the guy at the hotdog stand!" Clark said, and blushed. The handsome guy at the stand…

Bruce spoke so low no one else but Clark could have heard him. "And you…" he smiled at Clark. "You're the crooner." Clark gaped. Bruce knew he was more than that—that stupid name, the Angel? "And…you're the clarinetist's friend—Alex. He's a friend of mine too." He put a hand on his arm. "Clark—you have some amazing abilities. I watch you moving around the city. I _know_ that you aren’t like the rest of us. You're better—"

Clark shuddered. "No, I'm not—"

Bruce smiled and his grip on Clark's arm tightened. "All right, then—different. Could you—would you use those abilities to watch over Lex? He needs our help. Just…keep this between the two of us, okay? I'll explain soon, I swear," he said when Clark wanted to ask why, "but for right now, trust me. Lex needs you." He took his hand away and almost as fast as Clark could move, was gone. Clark could have followed him, but let him go. He shouldered the two mooks and sped them off to drop them on the steps of the local precinct.

Bruce was…amazing. Bruce was more of a hero than Clark could ever be, he decided—he did what he did knowing that he could be hurt, knowing that—Clark stopped. Wait a minute…he called Alex 'Lex'. "But, no one calls him Lex, just me…."

He flushed a furious red as he recalled just when he called Lex 'Lex'. That had to be coincidence. It probably wasn't unusual for his friends to call him Lex…not that Chloe did. Or Walt. Or Pete, and he'd slept with him…Clark grit his teeth. He was not going to be jealous of—of—figments. Thing to do was. Was. Well. What was the thing to do? Alex had clearly made his choice. Clark walked on towards home, letting his thoughts wander, and he came back to Bruce and his plea for help. And he knew right then that Bruce disliked this Mahaney thing as much as he did and more than that, didn't trust it, Clark was willing to bet. Mahaney was a creep and Clark decided it was up to him to convince Alex of that fact…he smiled. He had a plan for that.

_Dear Hannah,  
I'm really glad that you liked the book I sent. I had a feeling you'd like Nancy Drew—she reminds me of you a little. Just don't let on I've been reading girls books. (smile) I'm glad Mom and Dad are well. Glad too the money came in handy. I wish I could do more._

Clark tapped his pencil against the lined sheet of paper in front of him distractedly…he'd been trying to write Hannah a letter for a couple of days now. The words just didn't seem to want to come. He worried about home—Hannah's letter mentioned the big factory on the edge of town had closed right before Christmas, and how money was a little tight at home right now. He put the pencil down, and spooned up the thick ice-cream floating in his shake; let it melt in his mouth as he turned his attention to the drugstore window.

Outside, an unseasonably warm end of January was melting the winter landscape—such as it was. Chunks of ice cascading to the streets filled the air with regular cracks and splashes. The melting ice sent water running down in a steady stream over the drugstore window, and the snow that had been lying in grimy drifts and hillocks on the sidewalks and in alleyways was now lakes of grey slush that pedestrians and horses picked their way through carefully. It was supposed to be freezing still, not warm as spring, but that was okay—the weather was topsy-turvy, just like his life. He ripped a chunk out of his hamburger, chased it down with a gulp of shake and turned his attention to his sister's letter. It lay open next to the one he was trying to write to her…he smoothed out the heavily creased sheet, a little grimy itself from being opened and folded and shoved from pocket to pocket. Looking at her familiar looped and swirling handwriting made him smile. He read again….

_…Dad did manage to hire a new man to help out, and Mom's selling baked goods to some stores and restaurants downtown and that helps too. Now Clark, don’t you worry about a thing, this has nothing to do with you leaving, and it will get better soon. Things are looking up for Smallville. You'll see. Speaking of looking up, Monkey and I have been keeping the Fortress of Solitude for you, Doc. Whenever you come back home, you'll find it in perfect order. And if you ever feel like coming home, it's okay to do that. Mom and Dad do know that you had to find your fortune in the city. They're over that now, and they miss you. They send their love, I promise._

_I'm real sorry that you and your girlfriend broke up, but I don’t know about this new girl you wrote about. She sounds like she could be trouble, pretty eyes or not. If she's got another guy on the line, you should avoid her. She can't date two guys at once, right?_

He blushed a little at that part and apologized to Alex. It was just…easier that way. He put his pencil to paper and wrote.

_—yes, I was sorry that Chloe and I broke up, but it wasn't working like it should have. It was not her fault, she's a great girl. We're still friends and we'll always care about each other but that's how it goes sometimes. She's so understanding that she's even trying to smooth the way between me and…_

Who? He sighed, sketched in 'Alexa'. He erased it and put the pencil down…how did Alex do it? How did he just walk out and around and be—himself?

He'd promised Alex's friend that he'd look out for him and he'd thought he had a great plan to do so—one that involved lot of close contact, kissing, and hopefully more—but. Clark jammed the tip of the pencil into the tabletop in a fit of temper. He gasped, and looked around…slid his plate over the gouge in the wooden top—Damn it.

As plans went, Clark had to admit…his stank. Watching out for Alex depended on Alex being there to watch—and that wasn't working well at all. He groaned, and poked his straw around in his milkshake. The guy had been avoiding him like he owed him money. If it wasn't about the business of the band, Alex wasn't there. It was frustrating and—and—

A cough behind him made him freeze. Clark didn’t have to look to know who it was behind him. He smelled the familiar odd combination of expensive cologne, cheap soap and tobacco and underneath that…Alex, who at that moment was asking if he could sit, and looking at Clark in a peculiar way. Clark realized he'd been staring and maybe…sniffing a little.

"Oh, yeah, fine—I, um, was just leaving—" Clark swept the letters off the table and jammed them inside his jacket pocket.

Alex looked disappointed but smiled so quickly Clark wasn't sure if he'd imagined it, or hoped it. "I was in the mood for coffee and pie, but I didn't want to eat alone," he said, and shrugged the overcoat he'd started to remove back on, and resettled his hat.

"Oh. Pie?" Clark asked. "Well…pie…"

Alex smiled, and Clark felt the last bit of ice still surrounding his heart melt instantly. Alex ordered for them, and as the waitress walked away, casually said, "I just happened to be walking by the drugstore, and saw you here in the window, so I thought—oh fuck it—Clark, I was looking for you. Wanted to talk to you. Have wanted to, but I was afraid. Didn’t want to be shot down. I—" He stopped and swallowed.

Clark tilted his head and said, "So…because you didn't want to be shot down, you decided not to talk to me at all? You'd rather kill something that's beginning than risk getting a black eye." he said, and it was a statement, not a question. It surprised him not at all, it was something he knew about Alex—how afraid he was of people.

"No, but I didn't expect you to get what happened." Alex flushed a deep red. Eyes glittering with anger, he grabbed his hat from where he'd dropped it on the bench, meaning to leave, but Clark was faster—he grabbed Alex's wrist.

"Lex—Alex—I'm not angry, not anymore. I just meant to point out the flaws in your plan…or your lack of one."

Alex let his head hit the back of the bench. "Clark…shit. Don’t try to understand me, I don’t get my self. Being me is like swimming upstream in an overcoat, most days."

The waitress interrupted them. "Here we are, sweetie," she said to Clark. "Two cups of coffee and two slices of pie. Apple. There you go!" She barely spared a glance at Alex before walking away, and Clark shrugged, the tips of his ears turning bright red.

"I come here a lot," he explained. Alex sipped his coffee without a word and smirked. "I do," Clark insisted. "She knows me—the cook knows me. It's just sometimes, I don’t feel like sitting in my room, which I've been doing a lot of especially since Chloe and Walt have found each other…so I come here, and write my letters, get my dinner and just watch the show in the street…" he trailed off as he looked out the window. "People. They can be so interesting," he said quietly.

Alex said, "You say that like you're not people," and he frowned when Clark dropped his head and turned red again.

"Well," Clark laughed softly. "I don’t mean that. I just like watching people doing—everyday things, I guess. Living life."

Alex leaned back and lit a cigarette, took a gulp of coffee and followed Clark's line of sight. "Yeah…it's not exactly average, this life of ours, hunh? Weird hours, weird people, booze and mezz and hot drama, hunh? Sometimes, I think we're all in some strange world that's sandwiched with the _real_ one."

Clark smiled wider. "You sound like you read science fiction, Alex."

"Believe me," he said, "Science fiction's got nothing on me."

They ate in silence for a bit, sneaking looks at each other. Finally Alex said, "Listen Clark. I'd like to talk to you about…New Year's eve, but privately, if that's okay with you."

Clark stared down into his cup. "Yeah…I'd like to talk about that too."

"Well…good. Good. How about we get together tomorrow, at my place? We can…I'll make lunch. Or something."

Clark smiled, remembering Alex's apartment and his apparent lack of domestic skills. "Tell you what, how about I ask Frank for some sandwiches?" Clark chuckled. "If I'm not getting fed by Cookie and Sheila here, I'm getting fed by Frank and the crew there. What makes people think I'm hungry all the time?"

"Maybe because, you're hungry all the time?" Alex stood, he dropped his hat on his head, and tilted the brim back until the hat sat at the back of his head, and rolled his cigarette between his lips until it settled in the corner of his mouth. Clark watched all this with open-mouthed fascination. Alex winked and dropped a few bills on the table. "Here—my treat. 'Til tomorrow then, Clark."

He was gone before Clark could refuse the money. He counted the bills with a scowl. There was too much—what did Alex think he was, a bum? He shoved Alex's money in his pocket and paid for the coffees out of his own. Alex and he had a lot to talk about, that much was certain.

@@@

Alex's rooms were cleaner then they'd been in a while, and he was a little embarrassed and annoyed with himself that it took a visit from Clark to make it so. He'd scrubbed everything, the linoleum floor practically gleamed, the carpet was more or less lint free…he looked down at his hands and frowned. Housekeeper. He definitely needed a house keeper, because he was not going to do this every time Clark came to visit. Assuming there'd be a next time. He'd even thrown a fresh cloth on the kitchen table, and there was a bud vase sitting in the middle of it. He'd debated putting it on the table, or putting a flower in it—worrying it was too girly. But he had a notion Clark liked things like that—growing things, not girly things—and in the end decided, fuck it, and a carnation glowed an accusing hot pink in the afternoon light. The way Clark had smiled at seeing it when he came in paid him back in spades.

Clark perched nervously on the edge of his chair, filling up the corner the kitchen table was set in, where the windows made a room of light. The white table cloth dipped towards his side a bit where he'd pulled at it sliding in to sit. Alex smiled. He looked like a kid on his way to church, white shirt, grey vest, and dark wool trousers. His hair was brushed back with pomade, and curls still threatened to break loose, and some very inexpensive cologne had been applied…liberally. Alex took in a sharp, startled breath. He'd dressed up for him, Clark was trying to look nice—smell nice—for him. The thought made Alex strangely sad….

Clark stirred sugar into his tea, and smiled at Alex. The light made his skin luminous; his eyes were a true green now, absorbing the sunlight. He made that shabby room look like a palace, and Clark looked startled, laughed, "I do? How?"

Alex dealt with the aftermath of blurting out his thoughts as best he could. He could feel his cheeks turning pink, quickly rummaged through his pockets with a vicious scowl, eyes trained on the floor. He pulled out his cigarette case and grunted, "Smokes." He needed a distraction so as not to break out in smiles, but Clark's soft chuckle told him he hadn't fooled anyone.

They ate the sandwiches Clark brought, talked about what was going on in Europe right now, the latest film at the Odeon. Alex teased him that he had to have finished his dish collection by now, and Clark snorted. They discussed Miller's appearance at the Roxy downtown, and the miracle of the band being free to travel down south later that summer…Alex managed to keep Wade's name out of that but….they talked around and around the real reason for Clark being there until Clark finally said, "So, explain New Years' Eve to me." He didn't have to say _"explain Wade to me,"_ Alex heard it anyway. Thought, _'I can't. Clark's too good. He can't know this about me.'_

"Clark, it was…a whim. A spur of the moment. Wade asked me out and I…went along." He raised his chin, and stared right into Clark's eyes, feeling an awful lot like he was looking at his father. Hurt washed over Clark's face, so plain to see, and then anger, and Alex was fine with that—that he understood. That and hatred, and leaving, and insults. He clenched his jaw, ignored the burn in his throat and waited. But Clark…Clark just slumped a little in his chair and looked sad. And smiled.

"Oh. Okay. Well…I hope you had a nice time." He added more honey to his tea, and spoke casually. "I did. Walt and Chloe and Pete and I all went out. To his brother's club—I mean the club his brother works at. And after…to a very interesting place, Lacey's, have you ever heard of it?"

Alex blinked. "Ye-es, I have…who took you there?"

"Well, all of them actually. I met someone nice too."

Alex licked suddenly ash-dry lips—his tongue lingered, his lips felt cold to the touch. "Yeah—yes? That's nice." He fumbled the lighter, caught it and lit his cigarette, using the small ritual to regain control of himself. He exhaled and smiled brightly at Clark. "So, you made a new friend. That's…nice."

Clark stared back at Alex; his expression was calm, almost blank, and totally unreadable. "Yes. He came home with me. We—"

"It's fine—I don't want to know." He inhaled so deeply the paper crackled and flared, and he felt light-headed and furious—hurt.

Clark's lips thinned and he glared at Alex. "Now you know how I felt New Years' Eve." He stood, his chair screeching across the linoleum. "It hurt."

Alex leaped to his feet as well, blocking Clark from leaving the kitchen. "I know! I know and I'm awful but there's a reason…I just can’t tell you. But it's…a pretty good reason."

"Damn it, Lex—what kind of deal have you got with that goon? Manager, my ass—he's a knee-breaker, a button man, everyone knows that. What's he got over you? Your friend, that big dark guy, he's worried too—" Clark's mouth clamped shut and he looked dismayed.

"Bruce? Bruce…" Alex laughed. "He's always worried about me. Always in my business." He stopped, gazed at Clark in surprise. "You called me Lex."

The boy blushed bright red. "I'm sorry; I won't if you don’t like it. I know almost no one else does. That's kind of why…I do."

Alex smiled. "Hm. Well, fuck, Clark…" he dropped back on his chair, elbows on the table and his forehead resting on his upraised fists. "What can I tell you…how can I explain…?"

Clark sat too, shifted to be closer to Alex, and put his hand on his knee. "Start from the beginning, and I'll just listen."

@@@

"…I. Oh gosh." Clark looked stunned, and just a little frightened. Alex pushed the packed ashtray away and stubbed out his cigarette in the empty, mustard smeared plate in front of him. The small sound of dismay Clark made when he did that actually made him feel a little better, like things were not spinning out of control. Clark's vaguely disgusted look made him want to kiss the boy, it was so average, so normal, so Clark. So real.

"Lex, that was crazy—no not that, what you did for Chloe. I could have helped protect her. You didn’t need to cater to Mr. Mahaney. You could get in trouble." Clark looked worried and Alex felt terrible. Because when push came to shove—he'd lied. Clark thought he was doing the occasional delivery for Mahaney. Alex had looked into his eyes, his clear, innocent eyes and lied because he couldn't bear to see that admiration, that _want_ in them, die. So he'd spun out stories of midnight runs and close calls and…

"Lex. You're so brave. But…if the cops catch wind… I wish you wouldn't."

He wished…he should tell Clark the truth. Clark was shaking his head, looking aggravated but…fond also. "Is there anything you won’t do for a friend?" he asked, and Alex laughed—fuck, he almost gagged on it.

"Not much," he managed to say and lit another Chesterfield. "But now…something's wrong, I think. I don’t know what…I just have this feeling, something happened to me. And I need to find Bruce because my gut is telling me he knows what it was."

Clark leaned back, and looked surprised. "You don’t know? You mean like…" his brow furrowed, and what he'd learned from radio and the hard-boiled dicks of the pulps was applied to Alex's statement. "You mean like…amnesia? You think on one of your runs you got busted in the conk and you can’t remember it now?"

Alex leveled a long, long look at Clark before saying mildly, "Yes, Clark that’s just what I mean—conk, busted, amnesia."

Clark's jaw dropped, for a second he looked like he'd licked a light socket and then—he threw a piece of bread at Alex's head, "Shut up!"

"Clark!" Alex batted the bread away and laughed, "You're so easy—no wonder I love you—" Alex froze.

Clark looked stunned, and slowly, the brightest, happiest most amazing smile Alex had ever seen on any human being ever broke over Clark's face. Alex stuttered, "I mean…I mean…"

Clark laughed, bright and happy and Alex couldn't help but smile too, Clark's laughter broke over him like warm ocean waves, sweeping him up, swirling him around until he couldn't breathe…"Alex, relax! I know what you mean. You mean I make you laugh and you can be yourself with me and that's great. I love you too—you're my best friend. And I'm hoping that maybe…we could try to make it more." Clark stood, holding his hand out to Alex.

"Clark…what?"

"Well, we can stay here in the kitchen, but we might be more comfortable on the sofa." He took Alex's hand and led him out to the sofa and gently pushed him down. "Now…show me how this all works, please."

Alex was excited, nervous…a thought floated up from some place cold inside of him and spilled out. "Didn't your new friend teach you…"

"Of course not. The only thing I learned was that you're the one I care for. Now don’t make me wait any more, Lex. I'm tired of waiting."

Alex groaned, "Waiting? You have no idea what it means to wait…" He looped an arm around Clark's neck and pulled him close. "You can't imagine," he whispered against Clark's mouth. He pressed his mouth tighter against Clark's and felt it soften under his, felt it when Clark relaxed, put his trust in Alex. It was surprising how the feel of Clark giving in to him, submitting to him, made him so very hard, so very quickly. Clark's lips parted slightly, just enough for Alex to sweep the tip of his tongue between them. He loved feeling the heat of Clark's mouth again; he could barely stand having to wait, to feel it on his body, his dick…

Clark shuddered and moved under his hands. Softly, a little shyly, he said, "Could you touch me? Like the way you touched me before?"

Alex felt a surge of something heavy and dark sweep him. He reached out for Clark, wanting more than anything to _take—_ and checked himself. Remembered what it was like to feel like falling, to be that scared. To _trust_ someone that way…"We'll do what you want, Clark. You tell me what you want."

Clark sprawled on the couch, head against the arm, one long leg on the floor, the other canted across the back in a way that left him wide open. He pulled and tugged at Alex until he'd cradled him between his legs. They were chest to chest, hips to hips, and Clark made sure they were mouth to mouth. Alex let Clark tease his mouth open, let his tongue slide in, and Clark took advantage, explored him, tasted him. The little sounds of contentment grew louder, more intense, more desperate and Clark began to twist under him. He reached down and pressed his palm against Clark, his finger outlining an erection that was as long, as thick as he remembered. "You're on fire, so hot...." and Clark let out a gasp that was only a step or two below a scream. "Is this all right, me touching you? Do you want me to slow down?"

"No, don't stop," Clark moaned and lifted his hips as Alex unbuttoned his pants…he worked on Alex's shirt. "I want everything I missed the last time," he sighed, and pulled Alex's shirt off, smiled that he was bare-chested under the shirt. "Don't you ever wear undershirts? Mind you," he bent to taste him, "I'm not complaining…it's very sexy." Despite his bold words, the little circle he licked on Alex's skin was timid, and Alex moaned, to make Clark a little bolder, and moved so that Clark's lips bumped his nipple. It didn’t take Clark long to figure out how much Alex enjoyed kisses there—he threw himself into it, teased, sucked, scraped teeth over the peaked nub and all the while Alex gasped encouragement. "That feels good, Clark, really good. You can do that just a little har—" he broke off and groaned as Clark pushed up into him with a gasp.

"Lex, I need to touch your skin, all of it, I need to feel you…"

With Clark helping Alex undress, it was much more fun than usual, and took a bit longer than it should. Alex managed to salvage most of his buttons, was pretty sure he'd be able to find the ones that popped and flew off like little champagne corks…someday. It all seemed to go so very fast once he was nude…in fact, he could barely remember Clark undressing. It was like a dream—he blinked and suddenly was lying on acres of hot, silky, skin. When Clark spoke, he said aloud what Alex was thinking.

"Lex. This is like a dream, like all my _good_ dreams—I think about you all the time and—and sometimes at rehearsal, I have to leave the room, I can't—I have to—" Clark reached between them, and touched himself, his knuckles rubbing against Alex's straining dick, driving him crazy…Alex moaned into Clarks neck, and felt the hard length between them try to rise, felt wet slick their skin. "I think about your mouth, your hands…I want…"

"Yeah…" Alex reached down to hold them both in his hand, quivering with the feel of his dick pressed against Clark's, silky and warm, hard as steel. Finally, Clark. His to touch, his to taste…crown and shaft slipped and pulled together, slicker each thrust as pre-come spilled.

Clark shuddered, moaned, "In my dream, I'm on my knees, mouth on you, greedy for you, sucking, swallowing you, and—" Alex squeezed his eyes tight, and concentrated on not coming…God. Where did Clark learn to talk like that? "I dream about what you taste like—uh—Lex—" Clark shuddered hard, his arms flew around Alex, his hips thrust against him, he came with a little broken sound that made Alex throb all over…he almost came himself, at the feel of Clark's release, thick and hot against him. For long seconds, the only sound in the apartment was the radio, and their breath…and then a pained moan signaled Clark's return to the world….

"Oh go—gosh." Clark buried his face in Alex's neck. "Well," he gasped. "That's kind of embarrassing…I'm not…not usually that quick. Or that…loud."

"Mm…well, you're usually more…alone, hm?"

Clark chuckled weakly. "I guess, yeah."

"Don't be embarrassed, love." Alex lifted Clark's chin, "Believe me, I've never seen, or heard, anything as erotic," he chuckled. "When you cut loose, you really cut loose." He wiped his hand through the mess that glued them together, and grinned. "Really cut loose…"

Clark made a face. "Let me do that—I'm the one who made a mess of you." He flipped them, crouched over Alex and after a moment's thought, dragged a finger through the liquid cooling on Alex's belly, and touched it to his tongue. Alex watched open mouthed, as Clark's tongue swept over and around the tip of his finger. He winked at Alex, grabbed his undershirt from the floor and wiped him clean. He sighed and leaned his cheek on Alex's inner thigh. "I want to suck you. Tell me what to do," he said.

Alex's eyelids flickered—he rode out the wave of lust that swept him. When he felt able to speak clearly, he said, "You should…just do what you're comfortable with. Have you ever done anything like this before? No? Touch, go on. Just like you do to yourself," and he made a tunnel of Clark's hand. "Like this…" he pushed into the circle of Clark's fingers, and Clark took up the motion. "That's it. Tighter, yeah, that's good." He looked down, watching Clark watching him, so serious, so captivated—captivating….Alex sighed, and closed his eyes, and let Clark explore him—suddenly hot, wet, soft stroked over the head of his dick, he opened his eyes to find himself staring into Clark's. "Clark…"

Clark smiled, his eyes drifted closed and he took Alex in as far as he could. Alex moaned, thrust a little and Clark cupped his ass and encouraged more movement. Alex tilted his hips up and began slow shallow thrusts, careful of Clark…he could feel him relax, feel him grow more confident…Alex sighed, "Oh fuck, you're making me crazy, feels so hot inside your mouth, so good…" He had a feeling Clark liked words and he was right—Clark was moaning around his dick, humping the couch, so caught up he stopped worrying about technique, about drooling, about anything but pleasure. He gagged viciously a time or two but refused to let Alex pull back and it might not have pretty or polished, but it _was_ perfect.

"Clark, I'm going to come. You have to stop, or…" Alex felt the head of his dick slide across the roof of Clark's mouth, felt Clark's throat close around him. "Fuck." He let go, and it felt like throwing himself off a high place, felt like Clark was catching him, again, and again, and again….

He was drifting, content, sated, until he was drawn back by a small sound, a hitch of breath, and the shaky gust of warm breath exhaled against his skin made him pull Clark up until they were eye to eye. There were tears in Clark's, and Alex was choked with guilt. "Clark, I'm so sorry—please don’t regret it, you didn't do anything wrong."

Clark shook his head. "That's not it. Lex, Pete told me how things are with you, but I wanted…I don’t want this to stop," he stuttered. "I want you; I want…I don't just want to be your friend. Like Pete. I want…I _need_ more."

Alex froze. "I…" He closed his eyes; he took a deep breath and said, "Same goes for me, Clark."

Clark looked at him, shock turning to joy. "Oh, that's—that's good. I'm really glad. And don't worry; we'll work out this thing with Mahaney." Clark swept Alex up in a hug, murmured, "It'll all work out in the end, Lex."

Alex wondered how he could feel so blessed, and so cursed, too.

@@@

Alex walked about in a fog for a few days after the evening with Clark. It was the best thing that had ever happened to him—and the worst. In one short moment of towering stupidity, he'd made…a sort of commitment to Clark. He'd promised him that he wanted more than just one night, and he'd meant it, but...one look at Clark's face let him know he expected things…like fidelity. And he wanted to give that to Clark, he did. He just didn’t know how he was supposed to do that.

"Mr. Alex. I am finished for the day."

"Thank you Irena. Excellent job as always." He paid his recently hired maid, an expatriate Russian who claimed to be royalty. In Metropolis, he mused, it was hard to throw a stick without hitting some noble, though he had it on good authority from Anna, who owned the café he loved, that most of them were liars. Not like herself, who was authentic Hungarian royalty….

She took the envelope and said with a smile and the barest sketch of a curtsey. "Sir, your flowers I put in a vase on the sideboard. Someone thinks highly of you." She twinkled as he helped her on her coat and pat his hand before she left.

He looked at the huge bouquet of flowers dominating the middle of his coffee table, picked it up, and unmindful of the dripping stems, tossed it in the trash. It was the third bouquet he'd tossed in the trash in as many weeks. He hadn't thrown away the champagne that showed up at his door a few days ago, he wasn't an idiot. He drank that—the man had surprisingly good taste in wines. Alex threw himself down on the couch. Since New Year's Eve, Wade had gotten twitchy and strange. Wallman too, he found him watching with an odd look at times, like there was some secret they shared about Wade—or against Wade. There was something about the bodyguard…something had changed. Alex ground his teeth. This thing was driving him crazy and Wade's odd behavior wasn't making it any better, either. And, try as he might, he couldn't find Bruce. Bruce was all over town, busy as a bee but he was having no luck catching up with him, and why was that?

@@@

Wade had one end of the couch, leaning against the arm, smoking a cigarette and staring through slit eyes at Alex. He lounged like a cat, giving the impression of boneless relaxation that was completely false and that always made Alex uncomfortable, on edge, waiting for him to…to explode, to do something. He reached for his drink, caught Wallman looking at him again. Alex asked Wade, "Does he," jerking his chin towards the guard, "have a name?"

Wade scowled at the silent bodyguard, shifted his cigarette from hand to mouth. "Ye-es. Why?"

"Just curious. I never actually hear you call him by name…say, can't you make him go away?" There seemed to be just the slightest crack in the guard's armor, gone in the blink of an eye, if it had even been there at all. Wade smiled, looked pleased to tell the man to leave.

 

Alex relaxed a little when the looming presence was gone. Wade stretched, ground out his cigarette slowly and asked Alex to come closer. Alex slid along the couch until they were almost touching. "Did you like the flowers?"

"I threw them away. Flowers…what's with you, hitting the pipe or something? Or maybe the boys are taking over the mortuary business in Metropolis?"

"Just trying to be nice. Thought maybe you might like them."

"Yeah? Well, you thought wrong," Alex snorted. "You think I'm a broad? Stop sending me flowers, fuck. You make me feel…" Alex frowned. Wade smiled.

"All right. I'm just looking for something you like." He stroked a finger across the back of Alex's hand. "Do you like it when I touch you?" He chuckled when Alex shivered. "I like touching you. You don’t feel like anyone else. Touching you makes me hard."

Alex controlled the impulse to jerk his hand away. He hated being treated like that—like he was some kind of nasty fetish. He schooled himself to tolerate whatever came next. Wade just grinned and went on. "You got yourself a little friend, hunh? Well, maybe not so little. The crooner was up here, all night long, I hear. Don't you know you shouldn't shit where you sleep?"

Alex snarled, hoped it passed for a smile. "Speaking of shit, what about you?"

Wade looked surprised, and then…pleased. He laughed. "I'm the boss, remember? Listen, I told you before, I don’t give a fuck what you do when you're not on the clock with me. All I want from you is that when I call, you come." He reached out and grabbed Alex's tie, wound it around his fist until Alex was pressed close to him, face to face. Wade spoke quietly into his ear. "Suck all the dick you want, but tell that palooka from me, mugs who try to muscle me out of mine, get iced."

Ice flooded Alex, raced up his spine. Clark's safety was in his hands. As long as Wade thought it was meaningless…but if the day came he decided Clark was a problem? Shit. Alex thought frantically, if he dumped the boy now, he'd be safe. Push him away hard and he'd always be safe and never know how close he'd been.

What made him think that he could have something good for himself for once? That was why you could never break the rule—it was trouble, through and through. Breaking the rule meant getting broken, and he'd had enough of that to last a lifetime.

@@@

Wade called after rehearsal and told him—warned him—that he'd be by that evening, to be ready to go out. Wallman was at the door first, as usual. He stepped aside with a sneer and let Wade in, before fading back against the wall.

The club was decorated to look like a cruise ship; a thick ship's rail surrounded the dance floor, club goers in fancy dress were leaning against it, sipping drinks, flirting, making connections. There were palm trees in pots in corners, and walls painted to represent a stylized art deco ocean, turquoise and royal and white. A backdrop of an icy blue sky glowing with sunlight and seabirds flying across it was centered on one side of the blue and white tiled dance floor. Alex grimaced at the sound the house band was producing. They were chugging away at a faux Latin song, substituting maracas and mugging for talent. The waitress' were got up in an insane costumer's idea of Latin dress…they were fun to watch though, as fast and graceful as the dancers on the stage. They navigated the different tiers of the club's floor carrying full trays and made a show of their own.

Alex sat at an upper tier table with Wade and some strange frail who was hanging off Wade like he was her one and only though as far as Alex knew, they'd never met before tonight. She was strictly window dressing—Wade had no eyes for her at all, he seemed entranced by the dancers on the stage—they were doing an intricate tap, flying from one side of the stage to the other and the audience was thrilled.

Nerves made him tight all over, he felt the bloom of sweat between his shoulder blades and the effort of appearing casual was draining. Wade hadn't prepared him at all for the company they'd be in tonight. For the first time since he was a teenager _that day,_ he found himself in the same room as Morgan Edge. Uncle Morgan, who'd greeted him with a smile and a hug, heavy arm around his shoulder and clutching his hand—the very picture of avuncular affection. Around them, the soft glow of candlelight revealed quite a few of the top men in the ranks of the Gentlemen. There were women also at the tables, quietly sitting at the side of some of the men; none of them had the look of a wife. They were perfectly made up, marceled and colored hair, dripping with jewels and furs—each one wore the expression of women who knew their places. There were a few young men sitting next to the women and obviously had nothing to do with them—they were alike in custom suits, silk handkerchiefs drooping from pockets, or chrysanthemums in their lapels, perfect manicures and styled hair and one of the boys…Alex did a double take. One of the 'boys' was Beebs.

Beebs sat with a bored look on his face, his eyes slid over Alex with no recognition and Alex felt a flare of anger overcome the chill in him. Fucking Beebs—he'd looked all over, and left word every place he could and he'd never gotten back to him, bastard. And there he sat with his fucking hand in some goon's lap, looking like the cat that got the cream….

Food came and Alex watched Beebs, his stomach clenching with disgust. He was damn thankful to be spared the humiliation of getting tidbits from Wade's plate—something Beebs currently seemed to be enjoying. Alex couldn't help but watch him, his eyes lazy and his tongue dancing over the fingertips of the man who fed him. Wade followed his line of sight and smirked. He dropped his hand to Alex's leg and stroked. "You like that—you like him?"

Alex shuddered. Even with the skirts at the table, there was no way to misinterpret what was going on in that smoky corner, no way to put any other kind of face on it, but no one looked their way—the Gentlemen might as well have been invisible to the crowd. There were no photographers, no newshawks hanging on the outskirts of the group…they knew better. Anything that had to do with the Gentleman was a different world—hands off to the average joe.

"Okay, okay." an elegant looking man was speaking. He was perfectly groomed, polished looking. A veneer of good breeding, Alex thought. His speech gave him away. Gutter, a thug playing at being a gentleman. "I don't get it. What have you got against this move? If we ship horse up there, we're gonna make a killing. It makes money, keeps making money. A fiend will sell his mother for it; he won't do it for pussy or mezz, but for this stuff…"  
Alex wished fervently that he wasn't trapped at the table with Wade. He glanced around and caught Beebs' sharp look—it melted into a languid smirk and he stretched in the plush chair he sat in, rolled his head towards the man he sat with.

Morgan smiled. "I have plans for Suicide Slums, and at the moment, smack ain't in the picture. Right now I want what he's got. And I'm going to get it." Morgan looked over at Wade and Wade nodded.

"But…" Another one of the Gentlemen spoke up. "But Royal's had the racket all to his own since he stepped up. It belongs to him. He ain't gonna give it up like that. And you know…it'll be war."

Morgan looked incredulous, and a few of the other bosses took the cue and brayed laughter. "War? War? You call it war when you step on a cockroach, you idiot? We go in, our guys wave their pieces, croak a few smokes, and they'll cave. They got no heart, no balls. And besides, I got my ace here." He smiled at Wade. "If they won't listen to talk, Mahaney'll give King Royal a ticket to the Big One, right?"

Wade smiled back; they held each other’s eyes long enough for the table to get restless. When the talk shifted to other topics Alex leaned into Wade and asked "What's this about King Royal?"

"Talk about that later," he said, watching Beebs come toward them through narrowed eyes. Alex sat still, waiting to see what was going to happen—there was definitely something in the air, a kind of tension—the sort of tension he'd been feeling himself for weeks. Beebs was trailed by the boss that'd sat at his side all night and openly treated him like a…date. He stopped at their table, smiled at them both and pushed roughly between Wade and the girl. He knelt, reached up and ran his fingers over the back of Wade's neck. "You haven’t called me in a while." The man waiting behind them frowned, his cheeks coloring. Wade glanced at him and smirked for a second. Beebs screwed a fingertip into the sensitive skin under his ear.

Wade flinched. "Cut it out. Yeah, all right. I'll call you soon. I mean it." Beebs smiled and Alex saw that his eyes were cold, flat…even when he looked at him. Wade slipped a cigarette into his mouth, and bit on the end as he lit it. "Whore," he muttered, with a speculative look at Beebs elegant back. Alex thought he saw Beebs flinch….

Instead of returning Alex to his place, Wade had his driver take them to the apartment he kept. Alex sighed, and followed him to the elevator…"Whore." The word, Beebs momentary flinch—it kept replaying in his mind. He didn't want to hear it, see it…he heard it in Clark's voice, echoing over and over.

"Hey—whataya, sleeping on your feet?" They were at the apartment door, and Wallman was holding the door for them. Alex shivered and walked inside flowed by Wade and his man. He shrugged out of his coat and handed it, along with his hat, to Alex, who passed it off to Wallman with a sneer. "I'm not your maid—or your wife."

"Shut up about her," Wade said mildly. He pulled out his gold cigarette case, and his gaze went to the gold face of Alex's watch. "I oughta give you this case, makes a nice set with the watch, maybe cufflinks to go with—"

"I got lots of cufflinks," Alex interrupted. "And more fucking cigarette boxes than I'll ever need. Some saps think a gift makes a difference."

Wade laughed, he tapped the butt against the case, lit the cigarette with a mother of pearl lighter. He looked at the lighter, smiling oddly. "I know all about those gifts." He stroked the lighter against his lip before slipping it back in his pocket, and proceeded to pace the room like a tiger in a trap. Alex sat on the couch to wait it out.


	11. Chapter 11

Wade paced and smoked and smoked, and mumbled to himself. He didn't drink with Alex, but had cup after cup of coffee, like he'd found out there was a java prohibition coming. Alex watched him for an hour, getting more and more uneasy, until finally Wade sighed, sank against the wall, his head resting on the window that faced the street and closed his eyes. He held out his hand. "C'mere."

Alex blinked, rose and dropped to his knees in front of him. Wade looked down and the barest sketch of a smile quirked his mouth. He looked over at Wallman, who hadn’t moved from his post at the door the entire time. "Turn the light out and get out."

The man inhaled sharply. He flicked the wall switch. "I'll be right at the door."

Wade shook his head. "Wait in the lobby—or grab some grub at the coffee shop—just don’t be anywhere near here, got it?"

Wallman made a sour face, but nodded. "Got it," and left without another word.

Wade sighed again, it ended on a weird hitch of breath that made Alex look sharply at him, but he looked no different, just paler than normal… "I'm so tired."

Alex had no idea what to say to that, he just nodded. In the background a woman sang about love…if he concentrated on her, maybe he wouldn't hear anything else….

The room was dark, the only light the blue and red of the flickering neon billboard on the rooftop opposite them. With each change of the light, Wade changed too, the red made him look like his true self was revealed…the blue light made him look like he was dying. Alex reached up for Wade's fly…it was eleven o'clock—if he could get him to settle for a blowjob, maybe he'd be gone by midnight…he licked his lips, and started to slip the top button loose.

"You wanted to know what was up tonight?" Wade covered his hand with his, stopped him. "Morgan's planning to beat King Royal out of the numbers racket," he said. "He plans to take over every block in Suicide Slums." He stroked Alex's scalp, ran nails over the sensitive skin and Alex grit his teeth and sat still. Wade looked down at him. "He's gonna need a lot of dough to launch that ship." He gazed out the window. "Morgan is dangerous. More than anyone you know. What he's planning…it's not going to stay in Suicide Slums. The smokes will be bumping each other off right and left, than the lower bosses will want to fill up them empty holes, and Morgan…he'll let the rats eat each other, then send me in to clean up the loose ends…he'll take it all like candy."

Alex felt ice water in his veins. Royal being involved meant Simon Ross was going to be involved and that meant maybe Pete being involved….

Wade tightened his grip on the nape of Alex's neck. He folded, leaning over Alex; lips ghosting against sensitized skin…the touch made Alex shudder. "You're not the only one who's got a leash." 

Wade stood again, and Alex looked up into his face. In the blue light, his skin looked lined, gray, his eyes were black holes…he looked on the verge of utter exhaustion. His hand drifted up and came to rest on his chest—he grimaced. "Anyway, got a lot of late hours, lot of work to be done." He smiled, and actually looked somewhat happy, full of some kind of secret pleasure. "Lot of favors to be called in, at last."

@@@

Wade watched him shower—he was clinical as a doctor about it. Somehow, his cold dragon stare made Alex feel even more naked. It was…uncomfortable. Wade walked him back out to the living room, and had Alex roll a rubber down over his dick. Shower and a Trojan, Alex thought—Wade's idea of foreplay. Wade bent him over the arm of the couch, and fucked him, drawing it out, keeping it just on the edge of painful. Wade stayed fully dressed, didn't even loosen his tie. His trousers were only open enough to make it easy for him to pull his dick out. Being naked and getting fucked by a fully clothed Wade made him feel too exposed, but that didn’t seem to be Wade's aim…didn’t _seem_ to be. When Wade came, he groaned, but it sounded more like pain than release, and he didn't waste any time heading to the bathroom afterward.

Soon after cleaning himself up, Wade dropped Alex home, leaving him with the scent of hair oil and roses, and thinking about what Wade had said that night. He decided that somewhere in there Wade had given him a warning, but about what, he wasn't sure.

Alex stretched, locked his hands behind his head and stared up at the bedroom ceiling. He'd stunk up the joint this evening. He was off, missed cues; tripped up when Clark began to sing…Chloe had given him one hell of a read out too. He wasn't playing with Clark, but how the hell could he convince anyone of that? The only one who got it was Walt, and he was under pain of death not to tell or interfere and shit…Shit. He was getting to the end of his rope. It hurt more ways than he could ever have imagined it would. Clark was just so…defenseless. Just a huge walking open sore, fuck, he was hurting so hard, so silently, that Alex was going deaf from it. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths. Not much longer, not much longer before Clark would begin to hate him, and once Clark hated him, it would all be over and Alex could think again, breathe again….

He just hadn't counted on how stubborn Clark could be.

"Alex, Cee—get this. The Fitz is hosting Miller—Glen—against their house band. Battle of The Bands—" Walt said 'their house band' like there might be someone in Metropolis who didn’t know the Fitzroy's house band. The Fitzroy as world famous, it made the Al-Kazar look like a hootch tent in the boonies. It was the length of a city block, and the entire second floor of the two story building. It sat over exclusive shops, a high class eatery and you got to it by a grand staircase huge enough to fit a damn Hooverville on, cook fires and all, or so Walt told a wide-eyes Clark. "Tell you what, son—The Fitzroy—that's the place to be." He leaned closer and in an exaggerated whisper said, "The Al-Kazar is peanuts next to the Fitz. Someday…." he waved his hands in the air. "Not that I'd ever screw Mr. Louis—he gave me my start, and somewhere in that prune he calls a heart is a kernel of gold." 

They laughed and Walt shrugged. "Anyway, I gotta feelin' Mac White's gonna wipe Miller off the map—wanna be there?" He grinned, bounced on his toes.

"Hell yeah I wanna see Mac hand Miller his ass." Pete was pissed at the band leader still. He was positive they'd stolen his arrangement of Little Brown Jug, but even if he did, there was nothing much Pete could do. The song hadn’t been in their regular rotation and it was hard to pin it down as theirs... "We're going with fucking bells on, Mac's gonna murder him, you'll see."

Walt turned to Chloe. "How 'bout you, dollface—you coming along? I—I hope you do—I—geez—ha!" He scrubbed his hand roughly through his hair, turned bright red and laughed again before walking away.

"Ooo-kay." Alex said. "That jasper's hard to understand at the best of times, but that…?" They all turned to watch Walt chatting with the rest of the guys, sneaking looks at Chloe, and she watched him back, her eyes narrowing, her mouth getting that little twist that said she was combing through the question marks and it wouldn't be long before she started coming up with answers. And as soon as she did, Alex figured, she'd make it her business to confront Walt about his little verbal two-step.

She hunted through her bag, not taking her eyes off Walt once, unwrapped a stick of Juicy Fruit, folded it and bit down like it'd offended her.

"Hmm…" Chloe chewed in a way that made Alex uneasy. "Now why would he burn like that? When's the last time you saw Walt turn that shade of red?" Clark blushed when she looked at him pointedly "He's not like you, regular as a stop light," she mused. "That boy's got something on his mind. If it's something naughty, it damn well better concern me." She laughed at Clark's tsk of mock affront. She grabbed Alex by the arm, reached up and pretended to steal the cigarette he had tucked behind his ear. He grabbed her by the arms and pretended to shake her.

"What have you done to my poor virginal boy? You've corrupted him haven't you, you scarlet woman."

"Virginal?" she gasped, followed it with a sweet, fruit-scented peal of laughter, and Alex had to smile with her. "That man taught me more than any woman should know, why, I could tell you stories—"

"No!" they yelled almost as one.

She snickered, "Okay, okay, got ya, no stories. But he's got something flopping around in his little dusty attic of a mind, and I'm going to find out just what it is."

She hurried off after Walt and Clark watched her with a little smile. He turned to Alex, and the smile took on an edge of sadness but didn't fade. Alex wanted to yell at him, push him, do anything to make him stop being so fucking patient, being a…"Saint Clark," he sneered, and Clark's smile dropped away. It hurt all right, but not the one it was intended to hurt—Alex swallowed. Now…he needed to say something awful right now, something…hateful. Something that would wipe the smile permanently from Clark's face, make him so angry that he'd turn away or punch him, or something. Anything to break him of the habit of Alex.

Clark tilted his head, searching Alex's face. "Looks like you have something on your mind, too. I'm betting it's not the same thing Walt's thinking about, though." He smiled. "He's going to ask Chloe to marry him. What were you going to ask?"

Alex turned his back on Clark, and suddenly his voice was in his ear, his heat warmed Alex's back. "You're been ignoring me, or sniping at me, and being…a bastard, really…you're trying to get me to leave you, but it's not about that stupid Rule. You're trying to figure out how to get rid of me, but see, you don’t really want that. You think…something, what you're doing is going to hurt me, but it's not. It can't. The only thing that can hurt me is you, and even then you can only hurt my heart."

Clark's hand curled over his shoulder. "Lex. You don’t have to take care of me. I can handle my self. I had this friend once who thought the best way to help me was to abandon me—I'm not going to let that happen again, understand? I'll be by tonight to get you. I'll be by every night to get you…"

Pete rushed up, yanking his overcoat, frustration twisting his mouth. "I gotta run, gate. I've got some family business to attend to. I'll catch up with you two there."

Ice streaked up Alex's spine. "Pete, is this about that trouble we talked about? Do you have to be involved?"

Pete bit his lip. "Alex, I'm doing my best not to be. I'm banking on Simon finding a way. Don’t worry, okay? We'll all of us be fine."

Alex nodded, turned to get his coat, and Clark was there, holding it out to him. "Am I picking you up tonight?" he asked, and Alex held his hand out for his coat, snatched his clarinet case up and held it against his chest like a piece of armor. He swallowed, and slowly let his case drop. He nodded.

"Yes, come get me tonight." He tried to pretend it wasn't true that the only time he really felt alive was when Clark smiled at him.

@@@

Chloe's ice blue gown shimmered around her, like she was dressed in a piece of the sky. She was so beautiful, and Walt, he was…hunh. Really handsome. Clark had never noticed before how very good-looking Walt was. And the man was still blushing—every time he looked at Chloe, Clark could hear his heart race—it was really sweet. Walt kept jiggling his hand in his pocket, blinking, just being a big twitch in general…Clark was afraid that if he didn’t pop the question soon, he was going to pop himself. Why Walt was so nervous, he had no idea; there was absolutely no doubt that Chloe was going to say yes. From the way she stood, hands on hips and her head tilted, she'd figured out what was going on. And at the very moment he thought that, Chloe turned to meet his eyes and smiled, her own eyes sparkled like diamonds. Oh yes, she knew.

He let the crowd flow around him, waiting for Alex to come back to the dance floor. He'd gone up to the stage to chat with Mac White and a few guys in the band that he knew. All round Clark, people flowed to and fro, the buzz hundreds of excited people made as they chatted about the coming battle made him feel like he was in the center of a beehive. Excitement filled the air, so thick he felt he could hold his hands out and it would pour into them. He'd never experienced anything quite like it, and he could feel himself grinning, swaying with the music the 'warm-up' band was laying down. The crowd was so thick it filled the block long dance floor, even stretched outside to the sidewalk where the police were having their hands full trying to keep them in check. Inside, the bouncers just about gave up trying to keep order—it was a night chaos ruled.

Eventually the crowds thickened near the stage Miller and his band were going to take, but a lot of people were still dancing near one of the two stages the Fitz featured. Clark hummed along with the music, singing a snatch of verse here and there and almost drawing a crowd himself….

"Clark—come on up near the stage, they're about to start." Clark turned and there he was, so beautiful, and his. Whether Alex knew it or not, he _was_ his. The warmth that filled his chest bubbled up and burst out of him in a smile, and Alex's unguarded first reaction was to smile back—his eyes lit up, his mouth curved—and then he pulled on that mantle of hardness. "Come on, let's go." 

Clark sighed inside and promised himself—tonight he was getting to the bottom of this back and forth and putting a stop to it.

The Miller band was already going by the time they'd squeezed their way back through the excited throng. They'd made some changes to their routine, stepped up their normal sound even more, a little faster, a little hotter, to compete with the more swinging sound of Mac White's band, and everyone was going crazy. The jitterbuggers were ripping up the dance floor, the spectators were shouting encouragement and the band was swinging hot…Alex was grinning so wide, his eyes crinkled. He yelled, off his own personal leash, and just living in the moment and Clark loved it. He took advantage of the press of the crowd to lean into Alex more than he normally would in public and reveled in how instantly Alex relaxed into his touch…the crowd might be flying but so was he, for different reasons.

Miller's band finished their set, the crowd was screaming, half of them sure they'd just heard the winners, half of them sure they were about to see "blood," Sure that Mac was going to murder.

White's band started off with a slow song, sweet and light, all crooning sax and plinking ivories and the crowd seemed a little confused. Alex frowned, said, "Hunh…that's not the choice I would have made, not after Miller had them coming all over themselves…" Clark was watching Alex more than paying attention to the music, even their singer didn't hold his attention, not when Alex was leaning against him and tapping out the beat on Clark's arm. He was in another world—only had eyes for the stage, a little frown line marring the smooth sweep of his brow. Clark could only think about kissing that line away.

Alex sighed, and Clark closed his eyes and felt him breathe…"Here it comes," Alex said. The sound on stage was slowly building, a little faster, a little faster, faster, until suddenly the skins exploded—with a literal bang, they were full out swinging. The crowed lapped it up, went wild.

The hep cats were tearing it up, making up moves as they went—a circle opened up on the crowded floor as two couples danced side by side, and it was crazy—their partners went flying through the air as they switched them back and forth between them—the guys snatching the girls out of the air and Clark thought how beautiful they looked as they flew, their silky dresses whirling and flowing around their hips like clouds…

"Get hot—get hot! Go, gate, go!" the crowd encouraged and the drummer tried to oblige—his hands were so fast even Clark was amazed. White smiled, laughed, his caramel complexion slowly reddening with the heat, conk slowly curling up; the sweat taking the straight out of it. His teeth gleamed in the biggest grin Clark had ever seen. Clark grinned too. Oh, if he wasn't taken—Clark's heart skipped a beat when the guy winked, and then Clark laughed—that wink had been for the girl dancing enthusiastically next to him, of course.

The brass section yelled and roared and laughed and whispered. "Yeah—yeah—" the skins, the ivories, they all kept trying to lift the Fitz to a higher level, and the hep cats and canaries did their best to respond.

Pete was suddenly at his side, yelling something in his ear, pulling at his arm. "What?" Clark asked and looked down at Pete's hand. Oh! He'd wrapped his arms around Alex without realizing, his hands were on Alex's hips and both of them were moving to the rhythm, Lex leaning into him like…like they were home, or behind closed doors…"Sorry, I need to talk to Alex," Pete shouted in his ear.

"Okay." Clark let him go, and it took a second for Alex to come back to himself.

"What's up Pete?"

"Come outside for a moment."

Clark watched them go, an uneasy feeling prickling at him. Something was up…he stared after them, wishing he knew just what it was because it was making Lex jumpy and grouchy, and sometimes down-right mean…He squinted as his eyes went blurry—he blinked and blinked, and had the odd sensation of seeing the far end of the room as if his face was pressed against the wall. A wave of nausea swept through him, and then he was falling through—no, he was seeing through— _everything._ The floor was populated by dancing skeletons, the walls of the club melted away and he could see everything—and nothing. Just glowing blue lines—maybe pipes, wiring? And the skeletons scampered over it all, and suddenly, they weren't skeletons anymore… "Oh my. Gosh…" He blinked, and there were acres and acres of naked, sweating skin, everywhere. He blushed hard and turned to the doors and there was the street, it was like he was standing there, right next to Pete and Lex.

"I'll let Simon know. He'll tell King, and…I think the family should take a trip to Jersey for a while…stay with my aunts…" Clark gulped. He couldn’t control what he was hearing or seeing and it felt like the first time he'd ever experienced an ability manifest.

"It'll be okay, Pete. Simon is smart and tough and." Alex sighed. "Maybe I can do something about Edge—or at least, Mahaney."

"Look, me and Walt know there's something wrong with that cracker. Don’t throw yourself into the lion's den hoping to protect me and mine. We take care of our own, okay; it's what we've always done. I don't want you worrying—or fucking up worse than you have."

Clark blinked and staggered, and he was in the dim, smoky club again, falling against a huge guy behind him. "Sorry, my fault," he muttered, trying to orient himself. The guy grunted and moved off with a tiny girl trailing him, muttering darkly about poachers, but as far as Clark was concerned he didn't exist anymore. He was mulling over what he'd heard. It seemed there was something about to go down with the Gentlemen and if it involved King Royal, it involved Pete's family too and that wasn’t good. And…he had a new power to worry about. Great. He had, what—x-ray vision? Super-seeing.

As if his life wasn't interesting enough.

Alex came back in alone, headed straight for Clark, but before he could say a word, Walt and the club's bouncers were hustling him over to the stage. Walt said, "Mac wants you to blow, so get up there and blow, boy."

Clark felt a wave of excitement wash over him—yes! But Alex shook his head and tried to backpedal. "Are you bugs—Glen Miller was on the stage not a half hour ago, they'll eat me alive!"

Walt gaped at him. "You're fucking kidding me. You gotta chance to play in the same room as him and you're gonna pussy out? What the hell can you _possibly_ be worried about? Hell, if you stink—who'll remember your name tomorrow? Oh, an' you'll be unemployed by the way—but if you even just hold your own, you're gonna look like a fuckin' genius."

Alex stared at Walt, glanced over at Clark. Clark urged him to take the shot. "Yes, yes, do it Lex, do it!" for me, he didn’t say out loud, but he knew Alex saw it. Just like he saw the words that Lex wouldn’t say out loud. _God Lex, I love you too._

"What the hey, laissez les bon temps rouler!" Walt handed him his clarinet, Alex jumped up on the stage and took a breath. He closed his eyes briefly, as if in prayer, turned to Mac and Mac said," Green Eyes?" and Alex smiled, tipped his head.

The band broke into it, and Alex blew, and he did it nice and sweet, and the mob froze and the dancers stopped to listen to notes so pure that they made chills break out on the skin, made the heart seize, and made Clark's eyes fill…Alex on the stage was a different creature all together, magical, transformed by the sound. Forever, he'd remember this forever; remember his angel, soaring free on the stage and taking the whole crowd with him…

@@@

The verdict was murder and Mac White and the Knights were declared guilty. Hands down, he blew Miller's band off the stage, and it'd be some time before Miller came back to Metropolis without bowing to White first.

The Al-Kazar's crew figured it was their night as well—Alex was high as a kite with the excitement, the compliment; Chloe and Walt were high as kites with champagne and congratulations—she danced with every member of the band twice, she was hugged and kissed and patted until Walt stole her back and it started all over again. Clark couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this good—unless he counted falling off the train trestle and discovering all kinds of new things about himself, though the best being…he glanced over the crowd until he caught sight of Alex. He was trying to work his way through a crowd eager to share their joy.

"Great job, gate—righteous—you sent me, daddy!" Alex was being rocked from side to side, kissed and pummeled, and—Clark laughed—he was eating it up. Clark figured it was high time he rescued Alex, though….

Taking advantage of the wild self-congratulatory commotion, Clark pulled Alex out of the club, back in the darkness at the rear of the parking lot. "You were amazing. You're so good, you're the best…" he ran his hands up and down Alex's hips, and Alex shoved his hands in Clark's pockets and yanked him close, his teeth closing on Clark's lower lip. Clark moaned, and rubbed against Lex like a cat, "…you're so hard…" He eased him back until Alex fell against a car. Arched over the hood of the car, he had no way to hide the erection curved tight against his belly, trying to rise…Clark trapped him there with a smile, bent and began mouthing the hard length, biting gently through the wool, rubbing his cheek against Lex and drinking in the little moans, the tiny thrusts against him.

"Clark—don’t do that out here. God, I've unleashed a wild man!"

Clark grinned, feeling the flush spread over him, from cheeks to neck. He cupped Alex and squeezed gently, over his moan he said, "It's all your fault. Look what you do to me." He pressed Alex's palm against his on erection. "All your fault." He whispered into Lex's ear what he was going to do to him once they were alone, because it was all his fault and he really needed to be thoroughly punished for being so naughty…

"Jesus…how is it all of _that_ was lurking under that corn-pone exterior? What in the fuck do they feed you guys back on the farm?"

Clark laughed—a little embarrassed, but not enough to stop rocking against Lex, enjoying the shuddery little waves of excitement that swept him at every push…Lex gasped and threw his head back, "Stop—wait, I have to tell you something—it can't wait anymore. I have to—Stop, Clark!" He exhaled a gasping breath and shoved Clark backwards.

Clark let himself be pushed back and stared at him unbelieving. "You mean it? You want to stop so we can talk? But…I don't _want_ to…" He knew Lex meant it when he said stop, but couldn't stop himself from taking a hopeful step forward.

Alex stiff armed Clark and snapped, "Listen to me first, and then decide if you still want to." He looked so grim and determined and…afraid, that Clark nodded.

"Okay, Lex but…nothing you say is going to change my mind about this. About anything."

Alex swallowed. "Yeah, well…" He squeezed the bridge of his nose, glanced at Clark with a grimace he probably meant to be a smile—and told him.

"…and that's how it started—as protection for Chloe. I had a feeling about Mahaney—something in his eyes. When I offered myself instead of her, he went for it. Damn easy. Maybe too easy, I don’t know. And then, he offered me family. Jules—Julian. My brother. It was too much to resist. I needed to hear from Jules like…I needed water. You know?" 

Clark nodded. Of course he knew. He felt it himself sometimes, like a hole in the soul.

"So…it kept happening. All he expected was for me to be ready for him, when he wanted me." Alex talked on, his eyes focused some place far way, each soft word chipping away at Clark's heart. So sad, Alex looked so sad, and Clark thought it was odd that he never looked angry or bitter or hard, just sad, like what was happening was just another part of being Alex. Clark felt like crying, yelling, beating something—some _one_ to a bleeding pulp, hurting back for as much as it was hurting Lex. He took a deep breath and held it. Alex didn't need to see him go nuts—he needed him to be calm, and he would be. For now.

"He knows about you," Alex sighed, and finally flicked his eyes towards Clark briefly, looking away before he made real contact. "He doesn't care—as long as I don't care. But if he knew what you were to me, what you mean to me, he'd kill you _and_ me. He doesn’t have to say so, I know it. He's mad, Clark; he keeps it all locked up in a tight little box but it's there, just waiting for something to set it free. He's terrible and monstrous…and." 

Alex dropped his head into his hands, and the rest of what he said was muffled but Clark heard it all, plainly. The pain, the fear, the despair… "But you want to know the most horrible thing of all? He loves me. I'm beginning to think the only way to get free of him is death—his or mine." Alex laughed and looked up at Clark, defiant again, all Alex again. "What d'ya think about that Clark? Still in love?"

Clark grabbed him, shook him. "You won’t need Wade to kill you if you keep this up. You're going to kill yourself with this terrible stuff. Your friend, he said for me to look out for you, so now I am. Wade can’t hurt me—no one can. Stop worrying about me. I'm—I'm indestructible. I'm not—" Clark took a step back. "Oh shit."

Alex jumped and gaped at Clark. _"Clark!_ What…"  
Clark smothered a horrified laugh. Alex lived through all the horror he'd described—but Clark cursing shocked him? Clark took a deep, deep breath, his nostrils arched with the effort. He said. "This is the truth. I'm not an average human being."

"Hunh?"

"I'm not a human being at all."

Alex's eyes filled, his expression slowly changed from sadness to the dawning of fear—

"No! Don’t be afraid, don't—" He picked Alex up and… _ran._

Alex staggered and fell to the ground with a cry of shock; Clark could see the start as he landed on his hands and knees in muddy grass instead of the concrete that should have been there. "What—what—?" Alex jerked upright, mouth working as he stared at the grass stains on his hands. When Clark tried to come close, to help, he held up muddy hands to fend him off. "No!"

The single word, the look of pure fear on Alex's face—it was like getting stabbed in the heart, Clark thought…worse. "Lex…Lex, let me help you."

Alex gazed around…shivering in the cool air. "We're outside of Metropolis. That's not possible. How could—I'm losing my mind."

It frightened Clark. Alex hadn’t asked a question, he'd made a statement, as if what was happening now was a confirmation of something he'd expected all along. Clark shook his head hard. "No, no, this is real, it's something I did. I can do this, I can run really fast and I'm strong, like—like—The Blue Beetle—" 

He hesitated when Alex bit off a hysterical laugh, and went on. "See, I carried you here, and I can hear things for miles and miles and see everything—I'm from. From. Oh God, I'm screwing this up, all I'm doing is scaring you worse—" and to the horrified surprise of both of them, he burst into tears. One part of Clark wanted to die—he was crying, and not in a manly, Gary Cooper way, with a single hitch of breath, and a lone tear tracking his cheek…he was bawling like a motherless baby, howling and snotting all over and in general making a disgusting scene of himself. He was glad they were in a huge field full of nothing out in the butt end of nowhere. Alex hung back, hovering over him without actually touching, as if Clark was a two-headed dragon about to eat him, and that made Clark cry even harder.

"Clark! Please!" Alex shuffled a little closer, bent and peered into his face. "Clark…are you…are you going to stop soon?" Alex was as lousy at tears as any guy, Clark saw, and that made him hiccup a faint laugh. That seemed to ease Alex a bit and he came close enough to lay his hand on Clark's shoulder. Clark didn’t even care if it was so light a touch as to almost not be there—Alex was touching him at least. "Slowing down a little, Cee? Here." He handed Clark a handkerchief, wincing just a little as Clark thoroughly wiped his face and snotty nose with it and with a faintly wicked smile, tried to hand it back to him.

 

"Oh, God, no—you keep that."

Clark laughed a little and then fell back onto the ground. "Will you listen to the rest, or would you rather I just go away and not come back? I could, easily. I could take care of Wade and never return…"

"Fuck, no! Don't…I'm sorry but, shit Clark, did you really expect me to say, oh, is that the way it is? My lover's from…from…where are you from?"

"Outer space?" Clark said, and then sat up straight again. He blushed, tried not to smile… "Hey. You said lover. Is that what I am?"

"Clark—one thing at a time. Concentrate on what's important, please." But he smiled a little too as he said it, and Clark felt like breathing for the first time since they left the club. The sun was just starting to rise; the sky was gray and starting to flush pink. A chill breeze whipped up, blew over the wide flat field. Alex shivered all over. He was only wearing his suit jacket—his hat, overcoat, lost somewhere at the Fitz.

Here, this'll help some." Clark took his own suit jacket off and offered it to Alex. "I…don’t get cold, either."

Alex sat—or dropped actually—to the ground next to Clark. "Tell me all."

"I don't really know that much myself. My parents—the people who raised me, found me years ago, me and my…I guess my space ship. That's what my folks call it." He looked to see if Alex was laughing at him, or…was even more afraid of him. Alex looked okay, Clark thought, a little blue around the lips but maybe that was the cold….

"So, you're telling me you're from Mars…or Venus…?"

"Maybe. I don't know. My folks only say I was a gift from above. Outer space, Heaven…it seemed pretty much the same to them. Until I started to grow into these…powers. I mean—I know they love me; they just worry—worried too much about me." As he said it to Lex, he knew it was true. His parents had only ever worried about his safety. Had only worried that he might be taken from them. Instead, he'd left them… "I'm from a town called Smallville…you might have heard about the meteor shower there, in '23. It was a pretty big deal—brought those meteors, and me. My earliest memory is the corn field on fire—"

"Oh!" Alex scooted away from Clark, his eyes wide and glassy. "I was there when you came. My father was looking into acquiring some property there…stones and fire came out of the sky, and I was in that field. He rubbed his head with both hands. "This is…from that day. Those stones did something to me. Took my hair, made me look like…a freak."

"I'm so sorry, so sorry—I didn't know—"

"No, no—listen! Not all of it was bad—and we're here together, like a miracle. I dreamt about you. In my dreams, hell exploded all around me but you—you were always there, to help me. You touched me that day. I lay on the ground, covered in dirt and hurting and it stopped when you touched me, so soft, so cool…"

"Me? I don't remember that—I touched you?" He tried to recall, but nothing came. He hoped it was true…he could imagine a soft round cheek, warm to the touch, a little gritty with soot, dirt….

"I knew that you'd come for me one day, I've been waiting all my life, all my life—" Alex babbled on, his voice rising and rising. Clark began to worry; Alex was even paler than usual. His heart was hammering in his chest, Clark could hear his blood rush away from his skin—he swayed to his feet, getting paler, and more excited. Clark grabbed him, "Stop! Stop, Lex, please…Lex please." He wrapped himself around Lex, and rocked him, rubbing his hands over and over him, trying to force warmth back into him. Alex curled against him instinctively, shoved his head under Clark's chin, that made him laugh a little. Lex held on as tightly as if he was the one with the super strength. Clark liked it.

"Clark…I thought I was in love before but you…I've waited for you even longer than I thought," he laughed and the laugh broke into a sob.

"I know, I know. It'll all be better now, I promise. You don't need to go to Wade anymore, because I'll protect you. I'll protect Chloe. I promise I'll protect everyone."

Lex nodded, his cheek rubbing against Clark's shoulder. "I know, just…not yet. I need to talk to Jules again, let him know. And Wade…is not going to hurt me."

"But he's already hurt you! How can you say he won’t hurt you?"

"Listen, you don't understand. What he does isn't—it can’t hurt me. What he does is nothing. And I have a few secrets of my own."

Clark looked puzzled, wanted to ask, but Lex shook his head firmly. "Not yet. Clark…can you take me back home?"

"Um…the way we got here, or hitching? I don't want to make you more…uncomfortable."

Lex snorted. "Thanks for putting it that way." He leaned back and stared into Clarks face, and his eyes warmed, that smile that made Clark feel like he was glowing inside, flowed over his lips. "I'd like to go home the way we got here, but this time, I want to see."

Clark laughed. "All right, but I'm warning you—it's one heck of a ride. Keep your head close to me—and hang on!"

_The Fitz is based looooooosely on the Savoy Ballroom and White's band is based on the barest, lightest, teeniest whiff of[Chick Webb's band.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zgX5_waK--w)_

@@@

Alex barely got a chance to think about what Clark had told him—it ran in the background of his mind constantly, like a dim newsreel on a loop, but he never seemed to find a moment to sit down and really _think_ think about it. In a way, what was the point? What Clark told him…it didn't change anything. So far it was just something that brought them closer together, something that they shared, that no one else knew—he knew Clark thought that way. He…he'd have to tell Clark the real, significant change that the meteors brought, soon. He'd never told anyone, his dad made it plain, had drilled it into him that it was freakish, inhuman…disgusting. He'd hidden it all his life. Until Wade. He knew Wade suspected something about him was strange. The closer anyone got to him, the more obvious it became. That's why no one made past through the gates Alex erected. No one… except Walt, to a degree, and Wade, who'd been a calculated risk….  
And Clark.

@@@

There are circumstances in life that one points to and says, _'this day, changed everything. This day changed my whole life.'_ Alex thought that he'd had that day—hell, he'd thought that day had come a few times, like Gennie coming into his life, then leaving it so…dramatically, or leaving home, or Bruce…Clark…God, what could be more life changing than finding proof that humans weren't spinning through space alone—that angels really did exist. But sometimes, change happens so slowly, there's almost no sign of it…until one day, everything explodes.

 

Wade shocked him, showing up on his doorstep unannounced. "Can I come in?"

It was odd seeing him in the afternoon. He looked out of place on his doorstep. He didn’t belong here, not with the sun shining. He was supposed to be something that lived in the dark, not standing on his stoop, looking entirely too real in the weak yellow sunlight. He was dressed for the day like any successful young business man would be, and of course he was fooling no one—Wade always looked a like a tiger pretending to be human.

He was natty in pinstripes and blazing against a snow white shirt was a yellow tie, pierced by diamond stickpin. In his lapel, a boutonnière—a little crumbled daffodil that with a sick lurch, Alex realized probably one of the man's daughters had threaded through his button hole maybe that morning. He wished Wade had taken it out before coming here. 

Wade held a bouquet of spring flowers, something one bought off street vendors. Alex could smell him—the scent of his hair oil, and the faint, faint smell of roses…the smell that later no doubt would be on his sheets and on his hands and on his body…Wade's expression was oddly expectant, even a bit uncertain. He asked again, "Can I come in?"

Alex narrowed his eyes suspiciously, slowly stepped aside. "Sure. Could I stop you if you have your mind set on it?"

Wade chuckled and looked himself again. "Not really. You," he said to Wallman, as always at his heels, "wait out here until I call you."

"Boss—" He sighed irritably and nodded, eyes on Alex. "Okay. I'll wait. But upstairs, not on the stoop."

Wade looked like he was going to argue, and caught himself. He huffed, grinned. Okay."

Alex suppressed a little shiver, and walked them to the elevator. "You didn't call. I'm not ready."

"Naw, don’t worry about that. Here. Got some stuff from the kid." He smiled a little as Alex eagerly took the envelope from him. He smiled all the way up to his apartment, and as soon as they were inside, ripped the fat envelope open. "Hey, look at this, he says he got an award, best safety poster," he chuckled. "And he's on the honor roll again…good job. He's a good kid," he murmured.

Wade said, "Yeah, he is. A good kid." There was something in his voice that made Alex look up, but Wade was looking out the window, moving to the next one, as always. He shrugged and Alex saw the bulge of the gun strapped to his ribs. "Look at those mokes out there. Think they got it all figured out." He looked at Alex. "Think you got it figured out?"

Alex snorted. "The one thing I know is that I don’t know shit."

"Yeah. Nobody does, right? Look at you. All this time, you been letting me run messages back and forth between you and your baby brother, all 'cause you know Dad wouldn't allow it. You know, you got no idea what people will do to protect their own. Even act like they hate 'em, if it'll keep 'em safe." He stared silently out of the window again, before shutting the blinds and turning to Alex. "So. You wanna see your kid brother?"

"I—what do I have to do?"

Wade laughed out loud. "Nothin'. This one's for free." He stalked over to Alex and grabbed his wrist." Do you think I only do what I do for payback?" He squeezed, watching Alex's face as he did, squeezed until the pain finally made him react.

"All right," he growled through grit teeth. "I get it. Now stop."

Wade loosened his grip on Alex's wrist, yanked him close, and stared into his eyes for long seconds before letting him go. "You _don’t_ get it. I didn’t think you would." He looked down at his watch, and shrugged. He unbuckled his belt and pulled his zipper down, shoved his pants to his hips.

Alex said, "But you said—and you didn’t call, I haven't—"

"You won't need to," Wade said, and pushed Alex to his knees, pushed Alex's hands away when he reached for him. He took himself in hand and began stroking. "You won't have to do a thing." He gazed down with blank eyes. "…not a thing. Come in," he called out, and Wallman walked in, took up his station at the door, and watched.


	12. Chapter 12

_Dear Hannah,_

_I told her. My Alexa. She knows what we know. And she wasn't afraid. Well, by the time I was finished she wasn't. She's brilliant, so smart and strong, she's really strong. She can take a lot. I was afraid to tell her, you know that mom and dad always thought that it was the worst thing I could do, to tell someone, but when you're in love, you have to tell the person you love everything about you. You have to take a chance. And I took a chance, sure, but deep down I knew. She says that she thinks she knows me from that time. That maybe she saw me but she would have been a very little kid, so I don't think so. Anyway, she knows about Smallville. And now she knows about me._

_Mr. Walt is all fired up now since the battle of the bands, and having seen Mr. Mac White send Glen Miller(!) packing. Banana, it was out of this world! That means it was really the best! And my friend was asked up on the stage to play with White's Knights, and that was kind of special for him. Oh, you should have seen him—everyone agreed that it was righteous. (See, I'm a hep cat now, you wouldn’t even know me) (laugh)._

_Now, Mr. Walt wants to take the band to New York, but he's going to have to get released from the Al-Kazar, and to tell you the truth, that's kind of a long shot. Mr. Mahaney isn’t likely to let the band go. He has a special interest in keeping us here. The rat. He's a lousy double dealing two bit hood who just got the job through friends. He doesn’t know the first thing about clubs, or being a manager or anything. He's a rotten goon and I don’t like him. I wish Mr. Louis ran the club. He's a pretty good guy. Not the warmest guy, but he's fair. He'd let us go. I think he would understand why it's so important to us to go to New York.  
Oh well, hoping it happens somehow is surely all pipe dreams. But I've got my fingers crossed. Say a prayer for me, okay?_

_I love you. Kiss Mom and Dad for me and give Monkey a hug._

Clark folded the sheet of paper, slid it into the envelope and sighed. He'd told Hannah the truth, more or less…Lex did seem to accept everything he'd told him, even seemed kind of excited about it, but…there was something he was holding back. Some fear, some worry…Clark knew better than to push. Lex would disappear faster than the blink of an eye and only Alex would be there and he loved Alex but he needed Lex. And why Lex wouldn't let him handle Mahaney…Clark grit his teeth. Alex had some kind of oddball, tangled up sense of honor. Clark doubted he'd ever be able to tease it apart, but there it was, and it was Lex and there was nothing he could do about it. City life, that's what did it, he was sure. 

He sighed nostalgically…the country was a lot less complicated. In the country, a man's sense of honor was driven by the church and doing what was right and pretty damn easy to understand. He flipped the envelope over in his hand and a bitter chuckle escaped him. Of course, honor and respect applied to some people more than it did to others. Whit and his friends sure made that plain to him. At least a guy like Lex tried. At least to him, being a friend was more than just lip service, he meant it to his bones.

Clark shivered. No one should give so terribly much for a friend…

@@@

Alex had come at Wade's call to the apartment he kept for them. So far, Wade hadn't touched him, or asked him to touch him. He hadn't really said a word. He just paced back and forth, looked angrier and angrier. At one point he came to stand in front of Lex and there was something odd about him…it took Lex a moment to realize that he smelled of more than cotton and soap. He smelled a hint of sweat…startling for Wade. Something out of the ordinary was happening and considering what Wade considered ordinary, that was pretty damn frightening.

"Listen…" he stopped and ran his hands through his hair. He suddenly deflated, and Alex realized how much taller he was than the man…he sighed and said, "I've killed a lot of people, you know? It's never been more than business. My—people think it jazzes me to kill but it don’t. Killing's nothing, it's like swatting a fly… I get my note and I whack who he wants me to. Business. But there's times I think I'm doing the world a favor, you know? One less piece of shit walkin' around in the world. Other times, I whack someone and I think, 'that's the one I'm going to hell for', y'know…?"

Wade walked to the window, twitched the heavy velvet drape pulled back just enough so that he could see the street. He chewed his knuckles, eyes locked on the scene outside the window and Alex figured he'd forgotten he was even there. "Killing's easy," he said quietly, as if he'd never stopped speaking. "Pain…that takes thinking, yeah…?" He shivered all over, like a horse twitching off a fly and turned to Alex. "Get your coat," he said gently, and Alex froze.

"Why? What was going on?"

"Nothing bad, trust me. Get your coat. We're going to go to lunch, you and me…and your brother."

Alex shook. "Wha—what? But…how?" He was already going for his coat; his hand trembled as he tried to settle his hat properly on his head. "What about Lionel?"

Wade shook his head. "I don't want you to think about him. We're going to pick your little brother up at his riding school. His driver knows about you, what the situation is." Wade smiled, and his eyes crinkled. "He's a Good Samaritan, he is."

Alex was buttoning his coat and Wade stepped in front of him, slid his hands up the lapels of his coat, pulled him forward. He tilted Alex's head down to his and kissed him, a long lingering kiss. Alex closed his eyes and tried not to flinch when Wade released him, both of his hands sliding up to cup his cheek. 

"We're going to the riding school, we'll pick him up and you can have a grand lunch and then we'll return him to the stables where he's supposed to be. No one's hurt; no one needs to know anything. Julian will be safe," he said, and Alex felt a shiver down his spine as Wade traced his index finger over his cheek, behind his ear, pressed it gently into the soft spot under his jaw. He stared at the tip of his finger, as it pressed slowly harder, harder until Alex thought it had to bruise and he flinched. Wade lowered his finger, pulled an invisible trigger and smiled.

They drove south along Bessolo, crossed over into the nineteen hundreds, into the exclusive haunts of the filthy rich. Street after street rolled by, all of them familiar to Alex. That shop was were his mother would take him for uniforms, there they spent Saturdays, buying books and toys…here was the park Pamela would take Julian to in his little wicker carriage, and he would run along after her, or sail boats on the pond…there was the hospital his mother entered and never came out of….

After a while, Alex realized they'd begun driving in circles, and Wade looked troubled again, gnawing at his lip, then his thumb, and staring out the window. He huffed, threw one hand over Alex's knee and squeezed and squeezed. He turned to Alex and started to speak, his eyes were deep and dark…the light shifted and they were dragon's eyes again. He closed his mouth without saying a word, let go, and Alex tried to suppress the sigh of relief.

Wade leaned forward and tapped the glass separating the driver and Wallman from them. "Hey, they gotta be ready—head in." They turned onto a side road, and stopped in front of a drug store. Alex expected Wallman to fetch whatever it was Wade needed but it was Wade who got out of the car, walked into a telephone booth. Alex could see him, speaking sharply into the mouthpiece before slamming the receiver onto the hook.

He got in the car and this time they went straight to the school.

They came to a stop at the rear of the walled riding school where Alex had learned to ride, and where Julian was now learning also. The red brick topped with black metal spikes brought back memories, of ponies, and uniforms, hard work and horseshit. Alex smiled. He remembered the instructor—a tall, intimidating Russian gentleman, yelling, 'you're not a cowpoke, Alexei! Control, control…'

He looked at Wade who was watching him, studying his expression. "You liked this place, Alex?" He rolled a cigarette between his fingers, popped it in his mouth. "Good memories here?" He sat back, tapped on the roof of the sedan. Wallman got out, walked around a stand of hedges, and came back with a boy togged out in riding uniform. He had a bright, inquisitive face crowned with a wild shock of red hair. He walked along hesitantly, his hand in Wallman's huge mitt.

Alex felt like his heart was breaking. There he was…he never ever thought he'd see him again. With a faint sense of embarrassment, he wiped his eyes before tears could fall. He heard a small noise from Wade but refused to look. The boy looked both ways, his eyes fell on the car, and Alex opened the door and leaned out…The boy looked at him, his eyes slowly widened, his mouth fell open, he jerked his hand loose from Wallman's.

"LEX!" He ran to the car, coat flying, his red hair falling around his face as he sprinted down the sidewalk and threw himself into the car. Alex squeezed him as tightly as Jules squeezed back. "Lex, Lex oh, I missed you so much so much."

Alex could barely trust himself to speak. He just nodded, face buried in Jules' collar.

Wallman shut his door, and the car rolled away into the street. Wade watched, his eyes hungry and avid on him. "Are you happy?" he asked, and must have asked two or three times. Each time Alex said, "Yes, yes, I am, very happy."

The car rolled on and on, past the jewelry district, past the restaurants, headed into the residential area where the Waynes, the Queens, the Luthors, and others like them lived.

Alex turned to Wade. "I thought we were going to lunch." Wade shrugged, his eyes on Jules.

Jules held Alex's hand and bounced, he was so excited. "How much time do we have?" he asked, " isn't this a little like a Tom Swift story—mystery and a secret meeting? Dad will never know!" he said, in a rush of excitement. "Everyone has been swell about helping us get together, Lex. I missed you so much—and you missed everything! You missed all my plays and when I won the middle school's spelling bee and graduation and oh—so much—" he punched Alex's arm, "but I know all about you. I know you're in a famous band, Mr. Mahaney told me so! He said you lead the band."

"Well, not quite…but close enough." He smiled and ruffled Jules' hair and Jules threw himself against Alex's side. Alex watched the houses get farther and farther apart, the trees lining the streets became small copses of beech and oak. The houses were behind walls now, stone and iron barriers. The car turned off the road, and onto a smaller road. The trees grew tall on either side of the road, blocking the sky. Jules looked nervously at Alex. "Where are we going?"

"I don't know honey." He looked at Wade. "Where _are_ we going?"

Wade said, "You'll be safe," but he was looking at Jules as he said it. "Nothing will hurt you." He looked up at Alex then and said, "I promise you."

Alex felt his heart drop, felt like he was falling away into darkness…"Jules, don't worry. You're okay." His voice seemed to come from miles away. "We're going to have fun."

The home they stopped at was huge and dark, made of dark stone, accented with dark wood. Huge oaks and pine made lakes of shadow across the lawn and driveway. The entrance was a black granite portico, ominous, threatening, like a gaping maw.

The car stopped in front of the mansion. Wade led them out of the car, and inside.

Inside, candles and lamps glowed all over, trying to offset the gloom inside. Heavy dark wood and velvet everywhere ate up the light. Wade went to a set of double doors and slid them open. Behind it, bright white curtains hung at the windows, white linen covered the table there,set for a meal. Mirrors reflected back the golden lamplight; music played…Jules jumped into the room, and ran to a record player in one corner. "Wow, look at this, Lex!" He thumbed through the records excitedly. Alex watched him with a smile.

Wade came up behind him so quietly he hadn’t heard him, and startled him when he spoke. "He calls you Lex."

Alex shivered; Wade's breath on the back of his naked skull was chill. "I…family has always called me Lex."

"Yeah? Bruce Wayne calls you Lex."

"Bruce is like a brother to me," Alex said, and Wade laughed.

"Strange relations." He wandered away to stand with Jules and joke about the music, Lex looked around and the shelves were full of the latest books, and the newspaper rack on the wall near the chairs had a selection of the latest magazines on them, the chairs looked comfortable…and all of it looked unused. He called out to Wade, who sauntered over to him.

"How long are you keeping us? Whose house is this?"

"Come upstairs after dinner…your room is across the hall from your brother's." Wade leaned over and nipped at Alex's ear. "You and me, we have adjoining rooms…door in-between."

He bit down hard enough to make Alex gasp in pain. Jules looked over, "Did you call me, Lex?"

"No, Jules, I didn't. Are you ready for dinner?"

"Oh, I'll say! What's to eat?" His smile melted slowly away into a worried frown. "Will Dad be angry?"

Wade stopped at the door. "Remember Uncle Morgan?" he asked, and Jules nodded, a little frown line marring his smooth forehead. "He arranged this with your dad. He finally convinced him to let you have a few days with your brother."

"Dad's not mad at Lex anymore?"

"Not anymore," Wade said. "All is forgiven." He walked out and shut the doors.

@@@

Practice went on as usual, even though Lex hadn't shown up, or called, or anything…Clark was a little nervous about that. It was very unlike him. In all the time he'd been a member of the band, Lex had never been really late—and he'd _never_ just not shown up.

Walt shrugged when he asked about Lex, but Clark could see Walt was also on the edge of being _really_ steamed—Pete hadn't come in either, and hadn't called. Despite the annoyance, Walt got it under control, and rehearsal was getting into full swing. Chloe was really on—she sounded like a nightingale, she sparkled, she cooed—all the time smiling away and finally, Walt started to smile too. Clark jumped in with Chloe and they played a little with a weird version of _Green Sleeves_ they could never do on stage—fast as a run-away train, alternating lines—it was a lot of fun, and the fellas in the band laughed a lot and Walt yelled a lot. It was almost like normal except….

Mr. Louis came sweeping in, tall and wide, filling the doorway like an eclipse of the sun. He paused there, waiting for the guys to wind down into silence. He was followed by Frank, his second in command. He waited serenely while Frank announced that "Mr. Louis has something to tell you." He stepped back like a herald who'd done his deed. Mr. Louis came forward, his gaze swept the room, cold and disinterested until he saw Clark, and then he smiled—anyway, his lip twitched and his eyes grew marginally warmer—he told them that he had news and none too pleasant news at that. He gravely informed them the Al-Kazar was going to be closed for a few days. Mr. Louis sounded like he always did—like a dignified funeral home director, but his obsidian eyes flashed with fury. Clark was surprised. He really thought Mr. Louis never showed any deep emotion. But then again, this was _his_ kingdom the Gentlemen were messing with.

"Mr. Edge is reevaluating the Luxor and the Al-Kazar," he said, all ponderous dignity and barely concealed anger and then with a crack Clark could swear was almost audible, that veneer of civility fractured and he spat, "As if that uneducated louse on a baboon's behind has any idea what he has here. I for one would be extremely grateful never to have to deal with any of them ever. And if anyone mentions our private conversation outside this room, I intend to deny it." He smiled—Clark gaped. This was truly a day full of surprises and revelations—he'd have sworn Mr. Louis didn't know how to smile. "Gentlemen—continue. Apologies for interrupting."

Frank leapt in front of him to hold open the door. Mr. Louis turned and walked out of the room, as majestically as he'd entered it and Clark was reminded of one of those big ocean liners coming around in the harbor.

Walt rubbed the back of his head, and blew out a sharp breath. "Hunh. Well shit. I lose my ivories and licorice stick and maybe the club—that's a lot of shit for one day. Oh well, nothing for it then. Say, Chloe—"

"Yeah, honey pie?" she asked, and flipped the guys the bird when they all began hooting and blowing kisses.

"I gotta swell—I think we—whatya say we get married next weekend—can your pop make it up here?" He studied the tips of his shoes, the ceiling, his watch—

Chloe ran over and whacked his arm—"Idiot!" she yelled, and shoved him hard, and then threw her arms around him and buried her face in his chest. "Idiot," she mumbled.

"Ow!" He rubbed his arm, frowning down at her. "Say, what makes you such a violent dame, hunh? You almost broke my arm—and you didn't answer—"

"Yes! And yes! Oh, and there's a dress in one of Lacy's windows that'd be a perfect dress for me to get married in!"

"Oh God, woman, you're gonna climb in Lacy's window and strip a mannequin bare, aren't you?"

"Don't make me hurt you again, you goofball, you." She laughed and ran off, presumably to call her dad, and Walt grinned in satisfaction. Clark walked up behind him and murmured, "That's it? No flowers, no chocolate, no champagne…you're as romantic as a stone, man. You should go grab the future Mrs. Cook and make some love to her."

"Crap! You think so, C.C.? I mean, Chloe's a practical kind of kid…"

"Mr. Walt. She's right, you are an idiot. No girl is _that_ practical."

Walt blinked. "Oookay. I guess I better run after her, then—we're done fellas—g'wan, take off! Hey, and when you see Alex," he said, and stared hard at Clark, and of course, right on the mark, Clark blushed, "tell him I said his bacon is cooked and how!" Clark nodded with a grin and started to turn away when Walt said, "Hey Clark."

Clark turned back in surprise. Clark, not C.C.? "…Unh, yeah, Mr. Walt?"

Walt blushed almost as red as Clark. "Me and Chloe—I'm happy as hell—hope you are too—with. I'm telling you, Alex has never been as happy as he—aaaaah, crap—I love him too. Don't make me have to kill you."

Clark beamed and nodded. He felt almost as if…he'd been granted permission to court Alex. Silly but it made him feel good, and the look Walt was giving him, so dark with concern...made him feel even better. "I promise, Walt. I'll never hurt him, ever."

Walt stared a few seconds longer, before nodding. "'Kay. Well, I gotta go stop a woman from jumping in a store window, so—"

@@@

As soon as he could, Clark headed to Lex's apartment. He leaned on his doorbell, waited a bit, and leaned again. He tried shouting up to his apartment, but an elderly gentleman leaned out of his window and suggested vehemently that Clark shut the fuck up. Clark growled back, and settled down on the stoop. He closed his eyes and listened, blocking out all other sounds one by one, searching for one sound, the beat he'd made it his business to memorize because it was the one most important to him.

After a minute he was satisfied that Lex wasn't home oversleeping. He sighed, got up and trotted off down the street. Okay than, Lex wasn't home—he'd try the café.

At the café, he found out that Alex's visits hadn't been nearly as regular as they had been and did he have any idea why, Anna the owner wanted to know. She smiled at him, eyes sparkling, speculating. Clark's cheeks flushed. He could account for most of the missing days but he wasn't about to share that with her…. He left as quickly as he could.

At least he'd found out that, according to Anna, Alex had been by two days ago, picked up a coffee, but hadn't been back since. Yesterday morning, he'd called Clark, but since then, none of his friends had seen or heard from him.

There was probably no need to panic…probably.

@@@

After dinner, Alex and Julian wandered down the long hallway that led to the bedrooms. They made fun of the odd paintings that hung on the wall. "Looks like someone went and ordered a few yards of ancestors," Jules snickered.

Alex barked out a surprised laugh, because that's exactly what it looked like. Constipated old men that had no apparent connection to each other. The house was like a huge doll's house—it held only imitations of life—it was the sketch of an idea of what an ancestral home looked like. The idea made him uneasy, but Jules was prattling on, skewering the pretension in a very amusing way. He had the Luthor sense of humor—maybe not quite as icy a version as his elders'.

They found their rooms, Jules first. Alex opened the door, and they both stopped in their tracks. The room Jules was given was stuffed with everything a boy could want—there was a bed made to look like a captain's bed, with a ship's wheel as a head board. There were a few framed reproductions of Howard Pyle knights, and a big full color print of an NC Wyeth painting—pirates burying a treasure chest. The nautical theme continued in the curtains, the bookcases, in the dark wood dressers, also trimmed with ship's wheels. …Jules looked around and turned wide-eyes to Alex. "Gosh…this is really…babyish. What in the heck? It's like some buggy person's idea of what a kid would want." Jules shook his head, and didn’t notice Alex turn pale.

"Hey, look Lex!" Jules called out. He was going through the dresser. "There's pajamas and clothes and other stuff, all in my size." He glanced Lex's way. "It's kind of like a creepy fairy tale, hunh?" He was starting to look nervous and Alex hurried over.

"You know, I think maybe this is Uncle Morgan's idea of surprising us, and making us comfortable. It's nice of him."

"Yeah…" Jules looked not quite convinced, but Alex kept smiling and after a bit so did Jules.

The attached bathroom was also stocked. It held tooth powder, a tooth brush, comb and hair brush—everything Jules might need was in the room or the bath and it harder for Alex's to keep smiling. "Do you want me to read you a bed time story or are you too old now?"

Jules eyes filled, his lip wobbled and he flushed a deep red. "I remember you telling me stories. I missed it for a long time after you left, Lex." He took a deep shaky breath, and blinked hard. "I'd love for you to read me a story," he said, and whispered conspiratorially, "you never get too old for stories. And I'm certain it will make you feel better too."

"I imagine it will." Alex smiled despite the painful ache in his throat. He ruffled the bright red curls until Jules fended him off, laughing.

Alex read a story or two, and afterward they dissected them thoroughly, Jules pointing out all the illogical bits over Alex's protest of "It was just supposed to entertain," and then they talked about school, music…just enjoyed being together. Lex lay stretched out the length of Jules' bed, and Jules was twisted around Lex like he was afraid he'd disappear.

When his brother finally drifted off to sleep, Alex eased his arms from his neck, and quietly slipped back to his room. He turned on the lamp in the dark room and started. Wade was sitting in a chair by the bed. Waiting.

"How'd it go with the kid?"

"Fine—listen—just what the hell is the deal here? You used me to kidnap my brother. Why— _how_ did you do that?"

"First of all, kidnapping's not my stick. Morgan had me pick him up. It's his plan. This is what's happening. You brother's being held for ransom. You were the bait—not part of the bundle. Morgan knows your dad could care less for you. That's why he was never interested in you like he was in some, like that Wayne kid. Old Wayne was fit to be tied when Morgan forced him to give the kid up—always had acted like the sun shone out of that boy's ass—until he got pictures of the kid's ass with something besides the sun in it."

Wade laughed, stopped to gulp whiskey out of the glass on the table next to him. He exhaled after the deep drink, licked his lips before going on. "You all broken up because old Dad gave you the cold shoulder, hunh? And after that teacher, old Reginald, the one he had Morgan beat because he made you think you were something special and he didn't want you thinking that—well, Morgan didn’t give a flying fuck about you. It was bad for you, yeah? How bad do you think it was for your friend?" He picked a piece of tobacco off his lip and watched Alex squirm. "Least you thought you were in love."

He rose and pushed Alex down on the bed and took his jacket off. He slid his suspenders down over his shoulder, and took off the shoulder holster. He folded the strap under, held the bundle up and told Alex, "empty." Grinned. He set it down on a dresser, and took his shirt off, pulled his undershirt over his head. His thick oiled hair fell over his eyes.

He directed Alex to undress, and soon, he was naked at the foot of the bed. Wade walked around him, drinking, watching Alex breathe. "Lately, well, you know what his plans are…but he needed a lot of cash, quick. Fund the project. He decided it was time to use you." Wade flicked a look at him and away. "You make good bait."

Alex forgot he was supposed to be naked and cowed—he jerked forward, lip pulled back in a snarl. "You know this whole thing is nuts. He's nuts! He used me—you used me—"

Wade fended him off with one hand, shoved him back hard onto the bed. "Well of course. He didn't want any damage to the…" He stopped, like it'd just occurred to him that what he saw as a logical business move might not seem that way to the person stuck in the middle of it all. "And…it's kind of my fault. I was braggin' about who I had on a string and Morgan…didn’t like that. I shouldn’t—don’t know why I said anything. But he's the kind of person who sees opportunity everywhere. Nothing personal—not with you and him anyway. So, you stay here for a few days and spend time with your brother and when the money comes, your brother goes back home, safe as houses and it's all over." He looked at Alex with dragon eyes, flat and dark and completely unreadable. "Now. Go wash."

Alex walked to the bathroom like a zombie, dazed by what Wade was telling him…and what he hinted at.

"Hey."

He turned back to the man.

"Be good tonight, and maybe tomorrow, I'll give you something nice."

Alex shuddered just a little. Tomorrow, maybe he could find a way to call Clark, or Walt—someone had to be able to help his brother….

Just for fun--[what department store windows looked like in the thirties](http://thecouturetouch.blogspot.com/2013/12/inspiration-vintage-window-displays.html)

@@@

It took Alex a little longer than usual to come awake, and when he did, Wade was standing over him, running his fingers over his back. Alex felt the edge of a snagged fingernail scrape down his spine and tried to move away. "I never told anyone about what you can do. Not even Chauncey knows for sure…I made sure of that." Wade bent, and mouthed the hot skin under the curve of Alex's shoulders. It was terribly tender, and Alex remembered the searing pain of teeth tearing through the skin there last night. And today…Wade licked the tender,knit-up skin. "There's not even a mark left."

Alex froze. _Fuck._

Wade slapped his ass. "Relax. This thing is only between me and you. Promise." He got up, and smoothed his shirt down, checked his cuffs. He caught Alex's eyes in the mirror over the dresser as he smoothed oil into his thick black hair. "Say, remember that gift I was talkin' about? Get up, and I'll give it to you."

Alex came out to the sitting room, showered, dressed, because it's what Wade expected and it was something he didn't even think about doing anymore. Wade guided him to the library and shut the door behind them. He spoke into a phone there, and after a bit, handed it to Alex. His expression gave nothing away, and Alex took it, his tone still puzzled when he spoke. "Hello?" There was silence on the other end and then, a faint gasp.

_"Jules? Jules—"_

Alex jerked—glared at Wade who stood by, expressionless. "Dad. It's me. Its—"

_"Lex? Lex. What…what in the world…"_

"Dad, I didn’t do it. I can't have you think I did it; I would never hurt Jules like that. Or…"

_"Well of course, I know that, Lex. Lex. It's…"_ there was a long silence, long enough that Alex thought maybe he'd hung up, and then his dad's voice was back on the line. "…it's so good to hear your voice. Where are you son?"

"Dad, I am with Jules, looking out for him—"

_"Are you saying—they have you too? No! Damn it, damn it. Listen, Lex…"_

"What? Dad? What is it?"

_"Son—"_

Wade took the phone from Alex's unresisting hand, and hung it back on the handset. He pointed at a clock on the fireplace's marble mantle. "Lunch time."

Just then, the door to the library opened and Jules poked his head in. "Lex? It's lunch time, ready to eat?"

"Sure. Say, Jules, there's an indoor pool in the basement—what do you say we go swimming after lunch—I know, I know, an hour after lunch."

Jules laughter rang in the air as he ran off to be first at table, and Wade smiled at Lex.

"That was damn good." He looked proud. "You'd make a fuckin' good soldier…"

Alex shook his head. "I don't want anything to do with any of this, least of all Unc—Edge."

The look he gave Wade read _or you._ He just shrugged it off. "Every body's got to do what they got to do. Every body's got a place. Some folks are just…luckier than others."

It was warm enough to be comfortable without coats or hats, so Alex asked Jules if he'd like to take a walk while they waited, maybe explore the grounds a bit. He sighed heavily as Wallman got up and followed them to the door. The guard shrugged and said, "Boss wants it that way."

"Don't tail us too close, I'd like to have the illusion of freedom, at least."

"No sweat," he said, and peeled back his jacket. A gun sat in the holster snugged close to his ribs. "I can pick a fly off a horse's ass from a mile away and not ruffle a hair with this thing. You'll be safe." Alex smiled, bitterly amused that his jailor tried to disguise a threat as concern. Wallman nodded. "You never have to worry about being safe, not with me around, okay?"

Alex walked away, listening to Jules talk about a pond that was supposed to be on the property, but thinking about Wallman…maybe…it sounded as if he was reassuring him, not threatening. Was there something else going on here that he wasn't aware of? Had Wade lied to him about Jules' safety? He couldn’t imagine that he had—he trusted Wade to tell him the truth. He always had so far.

The grounds the house sat on were surrounded by a stone wall, taller than head height, and topped with spikes—the place was practically a fortress. The garden was old world style, with carefully maintained trees giving the illusion of forest, and manicured grass paths wandering through the trees, one of them led to the pond Jules was so interested in.

They came in sight of it and Jules ran out ahead to see. "Ha! This is perfect—I hoped it might be deep enough and it is!" He turned to Alex with a grin. "There are all these model ships in the room, and I wanted to know if the pond was deep enough to float them—race them really."

"I see," Alex smiled. Jules busied himself at the shore, collecting rocks, apparently a very exacting thing. After a bit, he had a pile of smooth, flattish stones. Alex wandered over to him, watched him select one and skip it expertly across the pond surface.

"Wow. That was good."

Jules blushed lightly. "Thanks. I'm trying to get it all the way across the pond."

"You will," Alex said decisively. "Say, Jules…does Dad ever mention me? At all?"

Jules looked at him from the corner of his eye, carefully selected another stone and tossed. "No, not really."

Alex took a breath to even out the little bloom of pain under his breastbone. "Does he talk about why I left?"

"No…well…yes. I used to ask him, a lot, why you left us. There was one time he said…he said you were too sad. That it was too sad for you to stay. I didn't get it then, but when I got older… he talking about Mom, wasn't he?"

"In a way. I was, though. I was really sad." He smiled down at Jules. "But that was a long time ago. I'm better now."

Jules stared at the smooth black stone on his hand, frowned a little. "Are you sure? 'Cause sometimes, you still look sad."

"Do I?" He laughed, took the stone from Jules hand and skipped, a respectable three skips before it sank without a ripple. "I'm not, love. I'm really not."

 

Wade came home that late evening, quickly bypassing Alex and Jules in the sitting room. They were playing a board game, listening to the radio…Wallman glanced at his boss and stayed where he was, sprawled in a chair in front of the fire.

"Alex!" they heard, and he jumped. Jules looked at Alex with wide eyes, tinged with an edge of fear, and Alex cursed himself for letting his reaction to the curt summons show. Damn it, he was supposed to be protecting Julian, not scaring him….

Wallman rumbled "You better go. He must have been working." Alex looked puzzled, and Wallman shrugged. "Sometimes he feels like talking after…you just gotta listen, he'll come out of it."

He went to the room adjoining his, Wade's room. He was pacing, cursing…he stopped and shook himself, tossed his head to throw back the hair that had fallen in his face. He looked disheveled, and he was…dirty, for Wade, he was dirty. Alex was shaken to see him this way. Something pretty bad must have happened, and he immediately thought of Pete.

Wade finally seemed to notice him, gestured briskly, "You. C'mere.

Alex edged over to him, wary of this strange new creature. "What— _damn."_

Up close, Wade smelled like a basement, like wet soil, and…blood. He looked in Alex's face, eyes thoughtful. "You're good friends with the jig in the band, right? You told him, didn’t you?"

"What?"

Wade shrugged irritably. "Those fucking smokes. They're packing iron like a goddamn army, and they're fighting like one too. They beat the shit out of us— _us!_ Morgan is just gonna have ta go out front on this one."

Lex's heart skipped a triple-beat—"Morgan? Did you tell him I told? Is he coming here?"

Wade looked at him like he was stupid. "Morgan ain't coming here—he's never coming _here._ Not as long as your brother's here, anyway. And I didn't tell him. No one knows but you and me. No one will know but you and me, okay? Ever."

Alex nodded, feeling as old as Jules. Wade held too many of his secrets. How was he ever going to get them out of this mess? "Clark," he muttered to himself. "Find me—I know you're looking for me, I know it."

@@@

Clark swept the floor—it took him a few minutes. And then he dusted the room, including the tops of everything, door, windowsill…he washed the window and tutted over how black the water was, decided he needed to wash the floor he'd swept. He pushed his bed from one end of the room, pushed it back when he realized he'd have to jump over it to get out the door, rifled through the boxes doing duty as bookshelves and organized his books by author, re-did it by genre, thought about doing it by the color of the spines….

He plopped down at the table, opened a deck of cards and amused himself by cheating outrageously at Solitaire. Finally he just sat at the table, ready to admit he was so worried he was about to go bugs. He sighed. All right. Something was wrong and he'd have to find out what it was. Lex wasn't off playing hooky, he was _missing,_ Pete was missing...Pete's whole family was gone. He'd checked at his house and the potted flowers on the steps were fried by heat and lack of water and Mrs. Ross wasn't about to let things go to pot like that, any more than his own mom would. He remembered Pete telling Lex about some aunts in Jersey…and Wade was mentioned and anything that had to do with that—that— _goon_ was never any good.

He needed a plan. He'd divide the city into sections and search, carefully. By foot, at normal speed, it'd take him days, but using _his_ speed—he frowned. It might still take him all night. He might have to ditch rehearsal...he sighed. There he went again, thinking he was responsible for everyone. The band wasn't going to implode because he missed one rehearsal, heck, it was pointless to pretend there even _was_ a band at the moment, what with both Alex and Pete gone…and what the hell happened to that tall, dark guy, the one who claimed to be Lex's friend? That was another person he couldn't find—Clark clenched his hands and accidentally crushed the cards in frustration.

"Damn it!" He threw mangled cardboard into the trash. He was done being an idiot. Lex wouldn't take off anywhere without telling him unless there was terrible trouble. Enough of parking his butt and—he waved his hand in frustration—sticking his head in the sand. Something to that effect. At any rate, it was getting darker now, and in the night, he could use his abilities without problem.

There was a clatter on the stairs, and the thump of running feet in the hallway. He jumped to the door, and opened it to find Pete there, mouth open, fist raised and about to pound on the door. He had his brother Simon with him, their arms looped around each other and blood, it looked like, everywhere.

"Pete! Pete—get in! Oh my God, what—"

Pete staggered in and Clark could see that he was supporting Simon more than Simon was supporting him. He grabbed him from Pete's grip and helped ease Simon into one of the chairs.

Pete looked terrified; Simon just looked resigned, when he wasn't grimacing in pain. "Clark," Pete stammered, "I—shit. Sorry, this was the closest safe place I could think of. We just need…Simon needs a second to get his wind back, is all. We'll be outa here soon as he does." He smiled, and it wobbled dangerously.

The blood that seemed to be everywhere wasn't Pete's. Clark scanned him quickly, but Pete seemed unharmed. "Sure, Pete, no sweat. Simon, let me see. I know a little first aid—on the farm, stuff happens, you know…" He pulled Simon's jacket back, and his shirt was black with blood.

"Shit," he hissed, twisted away and groaned when Clark unbuttoned his shirt. Clark gently ignored Simon's squirming, gently pulled the blood soaked jacket the rest of the way off.

"Pete," Clark asked, trying to stay matter-of-fact, "Can you take the teapot and fill it with water, bathroom's down the hall. And toss me those towels on top of the dresser, please?

He waited until Pete walked out the room before ripping the shirt off Simon, who yelled curses and moaned in pain. "You otherfucking gray, do you know—how much—I pa-paid for that—that—" he began panting harshly as Clark probed at his shoulder. "God, oh God, that really hurts…" 

Simon weaved in and out of full awareness, and Clark let his eyes go unfocused, thought about looking deeper into Simon's shoulder and then he _could_ look into flesh, muscle and bone. "Okay," he muttered…he got a knife out of his tiny pantry, took a deep breath and started to lever out the bullet, which was sitting mostly right beneath the skin. It'd gone in, glanced off bone and luckily for Simon, hadn't lodged very deeply.

"Fuck, fuck, boy, stop…" a weak, shaky hand lifted and dropped on his wrist. "My jacket—flask, pocket."

Clark immediately fished a flat silver flask out of the inside pocket of the jacket, and Simon took it gratefully, drank deeply. "God…how long you been cutting, half hour, longer?"

"'bouta minute," Clark muttered, keeping his eye on the spot.

"Shit…gun's in my pocket too, if I start crying, take it out and shoot me."

Clark snorted a surprised laugh, just as Pete came in the door with the water. He took the blood soaked towels from Clark and wrapped them in newspaper. "I'll dump these on the way out," and Clark nodded. So much for his towels…

He got the bullet out, and cleaned and bandaged the wound as best he could. "I don't have anything, no alcohol or peroxide. You better clean it out good when you get the chance. Pete, he's going to have to go to a doctor, you know."

Pete gave his brother a careful one–armed hug and Simon choked for a second. "Yeah…King will take care of the doctor for me…I gotta get back there." Pete looked away and nodded.

"Listen, Pete," he said, "I'm sorry, real sorry, but when Morgan's men moved on us, we didn't have a choice. I didn’t want to get you involved, but…I'm glad everyone left Metropolis. Thanks for coming to tell me. Too bad the timing wasn't better."

Pete told Clark about going to Royal's club, to tell Simon the family had gone to visit the aunts until the trouble was over, and practically walking into a shootout between Edge's and Royal's gangs. Pete sighed deeply, watching Simon nod on and off at the kitchen table. "I thought I was a goner, man…I really did. And when Simon started bleeding like that…shit. I was scared, son."

Clark hugged Pete. "Well, you're safe now, okay?" He glanced to the window. It was full dark now. He should go looking…but Pete was worn to a nub, and Simon was gray with blood loss and exhaustion—there was simply no way he could make it to the front door, let alone Pete' room, or Royal's club….

"You guys lay down," Clark said. "You'll have to share the bed and that'll be tough with Simon's shoulder but nobody is going anywhere tonight. Please."

They protested, but not too much, and when they hit the little bed, they were both out like lights. Clark grabbed an extra blanket and went out to the roof. He could lie down and think, and still be close enough to Pete and his brother if they needed anything.

 

Around midnight he woke with a start—someone was on the roof with him. He looked up, around, and there they were, sitting of to the left in the shadow of the chimneys. Whoever it was knew immediately that Clark was awake. 

"Hey, Angel." He was crouched in the shadows, the black silk mask he'd been wearing the last time Clark had met him in the dark was twisted in his fingers. That silent misery still filled his eyes; his lips were twisted in a smile.

"You! Where the hell have you been?" Clark felt a perfect wash of rage sweep over him—he felt like his skin was on fire, he was so angry. "Where's Alex?"

The long black coat dragged through the dust and gravel of the rooftop as Bruce unfolded and came toward him. The sound it made slithering over the stone reminded Clark of rattlers in the grass…"I don’t know where. Not yet. But I know why. And who."

"You know! You know! If you know so much, why don’t you know where he is? Or do you have something to do with this?"

Bruce flinched and the mask dropped to the ground. "Look Angel—you're right to be scared for Lex, but don’t forget who your friends are—I'd never hurt Lex."

"You're lying!" Clark got to his feet and Bruce blinked hard when Clark had was suddenly inches from him. "I see it, hear it—you're lying," he growled.

"I—I know Morgan Edge took him—and his brother. The way these hoods work, Lex'll be held in a safe house somewhere. These goons prepare for everything. It's going to be some place that looks legit, the cops won’t know about it. They're going to go for ransom. And when Luthor pays, he's going to get skunked. Jules will live, but the old man might not get him back. If Lex isn’t dead yet— there's bad blood there, between the old man and Edge. My feeling, Lex isn’t going to make it out—ow!"

Clark had him pressed against a wall. "If Lex is dies—you're dead, too. You could have come with this earlier—-why'd you wait?"

"Because I had to make sure my suspicions were correct. He's okay, it's only been—"

"Three days. Long enough. Too long." He held Bruce against the wall, lifted him until his toes barely touched the ground, and his fingers scrabbled at Clark's wrist. Clark felt the wash of Bruce's hot breath across his knuckles, and tightened his grip on Bruce's collar, struggled not to tighten too much—not yet.

"Look, look, look, I'm sorry—I just…" His eyes were closed so tight, long lines wrinkled the corners. His lips were pulled up in a not quite smile, not quite grimace. "God," he breathed. "I'm so fucking jealous of him."

Clark started—Bruce dropped off his toes as Clark's grip loosened. "You—"

" _Jealous_ damn it, yes. Look at me—look what they made me into. Sure, it is what it is and my father was a useless man." He laughed. "So, I turned it inside out but it took so much… _work_ to get where I am. And Lex…fucking Lex, God, who thinks he was hated and discarded, but who got the greatest gift his father could give him, freedom—and he got you. And sometimes I want to throw up because of the things I do, and sometimes just because…because I have _nothing,_ and he has you!"

Clark let Bruce go, backed away from him, from his blazing sapphire eyes, and white, white face, bitten lips almost as red as his burning cheeks…Bruce spit his words out like poison, but his eyes were wet, and he hid his face behind black gloved hands for a moment, shook all over.

When he dropped his hands again, his eyes were hard. He threw himself away from Clark and dashed to the edge of the roof.

Clark froze for an instant—"No!"

Clark ran faster, reached the edge before Bruce did, and swept him up into his arms. The pain he radiated filled Clark, made him desperately wish he could help him somehow, give him something…but right now he had nothing to give but strength, everything else was Lex's.

Bruce cursed, and fought against the line that was tangled now around Clark and himself, the black iron grapple on the end clanged against the knee high brick ledge. "Clark, what the fuck is wrong with—oh, for crying out loud, I wasn't trying to kill myself, you oaf—and look out for my line, do you know how much that stuff costs—"

Clark dropped him so suddenly to his feet he staggered. "You know, I'm fed up to here with people complaining about how much stuff costs. Lives are priceless—money is nothing."

"You only feel that way because you don't have any," Bruce snapped, and untangled his line carefully. Clark watched him, surprised again by his beauty and grace. He was almost as sexy as Lex…he blushed when Bruce met his eyes.

Bruce blushed too. "I'm…Fuck. I didn't mean that. I understand and I agree, really. Lives are precious." He looked down at the neatly coiled line in his hand. He shrugged, and a half smile like a wolf's showed white, white teeth. "Most, anyway. We're going to find him, Angel, and everything will be all right, I promise."

@@@

He pushed through the doors of the club and was intercepted by a deferential boy dressed in someone's overly romantic idea of what an Indian servant should look like: shiny brass buttons, bejeweled turban and all. He raised an eyebrow, refrained from rolling his eyes and handed over his coat; let himself be ushered through the doors that led to the dance floor.

Sound. That's what struck Lionel first—a discordant clash of sound: music, and layered over that the drone of dozens and dozens of different voices, the shrill ring of feminine laughter…the clatter of dishes and the scrape of chairs across the teak floors. He took a step through the archways leading to the dance floor, the tables. Smoke, perfume, cologne—the air was thick with it and humid with the coming summer…fans turned, their long blades churning the air and not doing much more than fanning the smoke. Table lights did their best to pierce the smoky gloom…it looked a little like brunch in Hell, he thought. It was an atmosphere that Lionel hadn't experienced in decades, one that he hadn't missed at all.

He huffed in annoyance and tried to avoid the Negro waiters as they weaved in and out of the tables—poured drinks or presented dishes with a grand flourish and sometimes what seemed to be an impromptu dance. Just high good spirits and the joy of waiting on rich white folks…all part of the entertainment the club provided.

Towards the rear of the club, Morgan sat at a double table, men arranged on either side of him, almost like an obscene reworking of DaVinci's depiction of the Last Supper. All eyes swiveled towards Lionel. They tracked his progress toward them in silence, eyes raked his body and rested on the briefcase in his hand. One of the men leaned close to Edge, whispered something that made him smile. He stood, and holding out his arms, said, "Leo! Come sit near me."

Lionel felt a wash of freezing cold sweep up his body, lodge in his throat. "My name is _Lionel_ and thank you, no, I'd rather not sit. This isn't a social visit." He held up the case, relieved that his hand didn't shake. "Here it is, every cent. Now let my sons go."

"Sons? And here I was under the impression you only had one." Morgan sat again, lifting a crystal goblet to his mouth. He sipped, rolling the wine slowly, deliberately, in his mouth before swallowing. "One son. But you're claiming the monster again?"

Lionel looked away. "In recent years…I've come to understand it wasn't Alexander's fault. He was the victim. That man wasn't the only one who took advantage of him—or tried to." He leveled a cold look at Morgan.

Morgan pretended to be shocked. "Victim? That's not what Mahaney says. He says Alexander has been more than willing to sell himself for what he wants. He likes to do strange things, I hear. Dangerous things," Morgan murmured, so softly Lionel found himself leaning forward to hear him. "And Wade…the boy thinks he's hiding something from me. Eh. Doesn’t really matter at this date. Alexander's too old to interest me; he has no use at all, no value, unlike Wade…or young Julian."

Lionel lifted the case to the table top, cold, clammy sweat clung to his back, his shirt felt too tight across his shoulders. "I tell you again, the price you asked for is here. All of it. It wasn't easy. I sold off what I could—you know that it's not easy to get my hands on such a large amount of cash. It's been rough all over …"

Moran waved his hand. "Say, what's your son's life compared to some pennies, right? Be proud of yourself, you're a better father to Julian than Wayne was to his boy. Did I ever tell you how much I enjoyed young Bruce? He was a good trade…valuable. Still is…Julian would have been as well. Could still be…?"

Lionel restrained himself from spitting in the man's face—he was a lot of things but suicidal wasn't one of them. "Thomas was a weak shell of a man—and what you made out of Bruce Wayne is a sick, twisted copy of what should have been a decent person."

"Oh, speaks the patricide. Speaks the man who pushed his son out into the street because he bent over a desk for teacher…you didn't give a plugged nickel for that boy then, what's the deal now? I tell you, between you and Wade begging for him, he almost becomes interesting again."

Lionel's smile had all the warmth of a shark's. "He's a grown man now, Morgan, I don't think you'll find it easy at all. He's tough as nails, my boy, and he wouldn’t trust any honeyed words of yours, not by a long shot. I made him that way—to protect him from something much, much worse than what he is now."

Morgan frowned and suddenly, his eyes grew wide, he stared at Lionel with a comical look of surprise. "You did that to keep him from me? All that…just to keep him out of my house?"

Lionel said, "I'd have killed him to keep him out. I've seen what happens to the people you want. Bruce, others…and Wade. I remember that little boy you bought."

"You were there, you didn't stop me." Morgan shrugged, smirked a little. "And it was a most worthwhile purchase. So easy to train…but he was half-way there when I got him, eh? Maybe, maybe I should experiment with Julian. Train up another attack dog. Do you think he'd take to it as easily as Wade?"

"Give me back my sons!" Lionel slammed his fist onto the table, spilling drinks, knocking over the lamp and throwing the table into darkness. The men around Morgan reared back like cobras, ready to strike, but Morgan shook his head, motioned them back. "You got a nerve, Leo. You got a nerve. Remember when it was fifty-fifty all the way? The days when if I had something, meant you had it too? We were closer than close, closer than brothers—and then came that job. The last job. And you got rich, and respectable, and me? I got this." He leaned over the table. "I'm not saying I don't love this—but I wanted more."

"I gave you what I could. It's not my fault if the blue bloods didn’t take to you. Not my fault you couldn't fit in—wouldn't fit in."

Morgan nodded; a strange expression flitted over his face and was gone. "I never ratted on you. No one knows the truth but you, me, and Mahaney…everyone else is gone."

"I know." Lionel dropped his eyes. "I never ratted on you either. Doesn't that square us?"

"You roped in that society bitch and had no use for me after that. How the fuck does that square us? Everything we were—"

"I never turned you from my door, not in those days. And…you could have stopped me."

Morgan stared at him, something ugly and hot making his eyes glassy." No, I couldn't. And that made me sick."

Lionel stared into his eyes. "My sons?"

"Tomorrow. Wait outside the riding school. Be alone, or nothing happens. Understand?"

Lionel turned away without answering. He retrieved his coat, and headed for the curb and the car he had waiting. There was a line of cars waiting, unusual for how early in the evening it was…all the drivers were Negros, some leaning on the side of the cars, smoking…some looking quite insolent. At his back, there was a commotion coming from the club, but his driver was opening the car door, and he'd had enough of socializing for the night.

"Straight home, Alfred. There'll be no stops tonight. I'm dead tired."

@@@

The noise in the kitchen was almost deafening—but it was a good screen too. The waiters picking up the food were having some trouble—most of them had no idea what plates they were supposed to be carrying, or how this tray carrying business worked at all. The white uniforms bulged under the armpits on a lot of them, or the jackets belled out in the back a bit....

"Now you boys remember, trays high, smile, don’t hit nobody, dance a little when them folks wave a dollar and smile, god damn it, smile like you mean it. Ya'll bring the money back here, we split it. Some of ya'll look like you wanna slap the hell out of them folks—remember, tomorrow ya'll will be doin' whatever the hell it is you do, but we still gotta be here. Try not to ruin it for us, hear me—"

The 'waiters' looked at each other, some chewing their lips or coughing. Some looked like they were talking to themselves, praying. Some just adjusted the pieces in their holsters and looked bored to death. Pete Ross was worried, to put it mildly—he couldn't dance for shit, and the unfamiliar weight of the gun in the back of his waistband ratcheted up his nerves to an unbelievable degree. He must have been fucking insane—what the hell was he doing here? All he knew about guns was a summer or two spent down south with his aunties when he was a boy, shooting at squirrels in the backyard and missing them.

The club's real headwaiter tried to give Royal's lieutenant a last bit of advice, but he shrugged the man away impatiently. "Look here, Uncle," he said, "You can kiss cracker ass another day—us, we got a job to do. _You_ just make sure your people stay out the way and run when the signal come." He looked at the rest of the men in the high collared white suits. " _Everybody_ be ready to throw lead when you get that signal—Royal wants 'em all gone—"

"Shit all ready!" Simon snapped, "We been over this backwards and forwards." He turned to snap at Pete next. "Why the fuck don't you get out of here? This shit is not for you, I don’t want you here." He hefted a tray and bit down hard on his lip, shifted it around until he let out a small sigh of relief. 

"Nothing doing. Look at you—how the hell are you gonna take care of yourself—you can hardly hold up that damn tray." Pete shook his head. "I'm here to make sure you don't get killed. Mom would pull my guts out through the place my heart used to be if I let something happen to you." 

"Fuck Pete, don’t you get you're going to kill me just 'cause you stand out like a motherfucking target? I'm going to die making sure you don't. I need to concentrate Pete—can't do that if you're dancing around getting your ass shot up." 

Pete started to argue but really, Simon was right, sort of. He _was_ bound to get hurt trying to have eyes in the back of his head. Pete figured, all right, he might not be worth a shit in the way of protection to his brother…but fuck if he could sit safe and sound at home or holed up in the Al-Kazar while the man was in the worst danger he'd ever been in. Right at the moment, Pete hated King Royal worse than anyone in the world. "Simon…how 'bout I stay back in the kitchen and wait on the cars?" Simon didn't have to know where he'd really be…. 

Simon threw his arms wide, and shouted at the ceiling, "Yes Lord, thank you Lord, for showing this knucklehead the way. Get out there in the kitchen and—and help those boys spoon up some of this slop." Simon and the other 'waiters' grabbed trays and bottles, and headed out to the floor. 

Pete huffed and stalked towards the back of the kitchen. "Knucklehead, I'll show him knucklehead…" 

__

@@@

Morgan clicked his fingers impatiently and one of his men rushed forward. "Call him—tell him to clean up the loose ends and bring me the boy."

@@@


	13. Chapter 13

King's lieutenant snapped his fingers and the rest of the men looked to him. "When I say go, drop these fuckin' trays and ventilate them thievin ' ofays." He folded a tea towel neatly over the sawed-off shotgun in his hand. "It's cleaning day, boys."

@@@

Alex had tried several times to get into the study alone, tried to use the phone, but Wallman was on him like a tick on a dog. If it wasn't the guard, it was Jules, following him, asking him questions, begging him to play a game, go for a walk, listen to music...he couldn't refuse him, and he couldn't really avoid him and it was a bit of work on his part not to worry Jules.

At the moment, Jules was at the pond, setting some of Edge's no doubt terribly expensive miniature ships free. It was a thought that made Alex smile. 

He wandered around the house, noting that most rooms had sealed windows, or doors that locked from the outside only. He knew there were no phones in any of the rooms of course, just the one in the library and the room that held a switchboard and operator…the room he couldn’t find. He felt a little dry tickle of thirst, and thought he'd get a drink from the kitchen instead of calling a servant to the sitting room and then having to wait for it to be brought to him…the thought crossed his mind that the kitchen had to have a phone. Yeah, surely they had a phone….

He walked quickly down the hallway, to the double staircase that split the house in two, one side lead to the public spaces and living areas, the other side led towards the kitchen and the servants' quarters. He walked faster, faster until he was almost running, dashed into the kitchen. Heat and noise assailed him for a moment. He hesitated, and all eyes turned to him, puzzled to see one of the house guests standing in the kitchen.

"Help you, sir?" one of the cooks asked.

Nerves made his mouth dry, his voice low and harsh. He forced it to be heard over the din. "Is there a phone here?" Alex asked.

"Yes sir, but it don't work unless the switchboard operator makes the connection and Mr. Mahaney said no one makes a call without him saying so, him or that giant trails him all the time—" The man seemed to suddenly realize he was gossiping about his betters to one of his betters, and flushing red, stammered an apology and hurried away.

Alex asked for and got a bottle of beer and an opener and went out through the rear doors, out onto the grounds.

There just had to be some way possible to get a phone call out. 

He walked in the opposite direction of the pond and found a wrought iron bench hidden in a carefully manicured spot of the garden. He sat and pulled the bottle out of his pocket. He'd have to figure a way, and soon. He popped the cap off and tucked it and the opener into his vest pocket, took a long, long drink. He wiped his lips with his thumb and thought hard. He thought about Wallman, who had the authority to use the phone, Wallman who watched him walk, who stared coldly—or maybe enviously—at Wade when he gave Alex a rough time. Who swallowed hard when Alex licked his lips….

Alex set the empty bottle on the stones between his feet, reached in his pocket for the mother-of-pearl inlaid cigarette case Wade had given him…looked like a match to that lighter he always carried….

He lit a cigarette, emptied the rest into his pocket and then threw the damn case as hard and as far as he could. He smiled grimly as it shattered into pieces against a tree.

"Clark," he yelled, "Clark, goddamn it, where the hell are you—come save Jules!" He grit his teeth together, pushed with his thumb at the bridge of his nose until he saw stars. He whispered harshly, "Fuck, come stop me before I do something I'll regret—if I get the time to—"

He stretched across the bench, smoking, thinking, weighing his decision. He decided that saving Jules was all that mattered, whatever it took. Wallman. Charles, Chuck—Wade had called him something with a chuh, had eyes for him. He wasn't blind. He knew C. Wallman had it bad…maybe bad enough to let himself be used.

@@@

Clark watched the sun rise over the neighboring rooftops, and waited. In the last couple of days they'd been working together, it'd become a bit of a game with him, and he suspected with Bruce as well. Clark held his breath and waited, searching—and there he was. No matter how hard he listened, no matter how closely he watched, the empty rooftop gave up no secrets. One minute he was alone and the next—Bruce was just—there. It was a little aggravating, a little scary, and sometimes he had to admit, a little…sexy.

Bruce whipped the scarf away and shoved it into an overcoat pocket, peeled off the gloves and stuck them in pockets too.

Clark looked him over thoughtfully and said, "Do you mind if I ask you something?"

Bruce smirked back, threw back his coattails and stuck his hands deep into his pants pockets. "Go ahead. Ask away."

"Well…it's hot as heck in Metropolis in the summer. What are you going to be wearing then? I mean, scarf, overcoat, gloves—in ninety degree weather? Seems a little—"

"Oh shut up," Bruce said, and Clark smirked as the blush washed over Bruce's cheeks. "I'll…think of something. Besides, this isn't the best get-up anyway," he mused. "Not enough pockets, and that scarf is beginning to drive me nuts… by the way, I've got good news, important news."

Clark gasped. Excitement spiked so hard it was almost painful. "Finally! What have you got for me?" 

He held his hand out for a leather folder Bruce pulled from under his coat. Bruce brushed past his outstretched hand and strode over to the building's edge, laid the case on the chest-high wall surrounding it. He removed a map and smoothed it flat. "These are all the safe-houses owned by the Gentlemen. Some of these are known, by dirty cops or politicians who need a little get-away from time to time, rich mugs who want something that they can't get at home or don’t want getting out to their set, but there a few nobody knows about but the _inner_ inner circle." He smiled. "Luckily, some people will say anything after an orgasm. So…Lex and his brother will be in one of these, the unknowns. I also asked around about who's missing and only Mahaney and his bodyguard are out of town. That means Edge is playing this damn close to the vest—and if he sent his lapdog to watch them neither of the Luthors are meant to come back to town. Edge probably means to take the money and keep Julian as his newest…" he hesitated, glanced at Clark. "A pet." He nodded at Clark's gasp of horrified disbelief.

"But—but he knows Julian—he's been to their home, he's given him birthday gifts and—they call him uncle—"

Bruce shrugged, as if what Clark was saying meant too little to be acknowledged. "I called him Uncle too. And then spent two years in his…house." He wrapped his hand around Clark's wrist when he growled; if he'd been looking at Clark he'd have seen his eyes glow briefly red. "Losing your grip won’t help Lex, okay?" He went on, "Not much Lionel can do if that's what the goon wants, not with the dirt Edge has on him. Lionel would have to be willing to give everything up to get both of them back. Can't see that happening—"

"Wait, wait, wait—you're saying you _know_ Edge is going to kill Lex? What the—how can you be so damn calm about it?"

Bruce looked surprised. "Because it's not going to happen, okay? Do me a favor and don’t choke me this time, okay? We'll get him out, I promise. Besides, Morgan made a mistake counting on Mahaney to kill Lex. I hope so anyway. I've…I've seen him with Lex. I think…Wade's not as uninvolved as Morgan expects."

Clark glowered. "I know that palooka thinks Lex belongs to him or something. But he's wrong—dead wrong."

Bruce nodded and folded the map. "All we have to do now is find him."

@@@

Clark convinced Bruce—now all he had to do was convince himself. Deep down, he thought the idea was ridiculous. He couldn't believe that he'd led Bruce to believe it was possible…but Bruce had kind of needed to believe it was, almost as much as Clark needed to believe it was possible. He glanced over at Bruce's tight, set expression…maybe more.

There was no way he'd tell him that he'd never really done it before. Really—how was he supposed to tell which heartbeat was the right one, out of hundreds?

He'd had to bully Bruce a little all night long—first to make him believe in his extra-superior hearing abilities, than had to bully Bruce into being carried, in Clark's arms, at superior speed, to the outskirts of Metropolis—at least he'd had sense enough to stay still once Clark hit full speed. He'd stopped on a hillside not far from where the map directed them. Clark had to admit, this side of Metropolis was grand—the skies seemed filled with stars without the constant smoke and soot to hide them, and the hills were covered with budding green, the breeze brought the scent of growing things instead of burning coal and garbage— for a brief second Clark felt terribly homesick.

There were lots of big houses hidden by huge walls and the remnants of forest, houses that were fancier than the Bessolo Boulevard district or the Centennial Park area by far. Most of the smaller roads branching from the main road were private. A few even had old-fashioned liveried men at their gates.

Bruce sat in the grass, trying to regain his equilibrium. Clark had checked to make sure he was psychically okay and then forgot him—he was concentrating with all his being on one impossible thing, and it was all he could spare thought for.

"Whew—can’t say I care much for that mode of travel," Bruce muttered. A little louder he said, "Hey. Someday, I'm going to want explanations for—all of this, you understand? But right now, how about doing that thing you claim you can do?"

"Yeah." Clark swallowed hard. "I—I'm trying...just, quiet, okay?" He shut his eyes, and thought hard about wanting to hear—everything. He thought about dismantling all the barriers he'd learned to place between himself and the world—all the protection he'd erected against the barrage he'd experienced in childhood. He examined it, and slowly let it give way. Bit by bit, he left himself more open than he'd ever been before. He braced himself for the sensation of sound rushing at him like a run-away train…"Everything's okay," he whispered, more for himself than for Bruce.

Bruce's heart thundered like a bass drum next to him, so loud and deep Clark felt it in his blood. He concentrated and managed to ignore it…all around him sounds were identified and dismissed, and still he doubted he'd be able to find one man's heartbeat out of so many…and then a sound—a _feeling_ swept over him. In his mind, his head was resting on Lex's chest and he could feel the warmth, the steady beat under his cheek, and then he imagined he heard it… _was_ hearing it…he turned his head toward it, eyes still closed, searching for the soft thump-thump that signified Lex. He pictured lying next to Lex, feeling the beat, let it fill him and murmured, "I have it."

Bruce whispered, "Good—I'll just—"

"Shhh! Come on, we need to get there in a hurry."

Bruce muttered, "Shit." Held his arms up with a deep sigh, waiting for Clark to whisk him up again.

@@@

The phone rang steadily, and Alex and Jules looked up. Neither moved, it was Wade's job to answer the phone. He seemed reluctant…it took a few long seconds before he finally stood and walked to the telephone table. Alex folded his newspaper and caught Jules' eyes over his book. He raised an eyebrow at Jules who shrugged, and they both watched Wade pick up the phone. Beyond saying hello, he was silent. He listened, nodding his head even though it was pointless. He winced and glanced around the room, at the ceiling, out the window…he hung up and stared at the windows for some minutes, and then said, "Chauncey, take Julian to his room. Alex and I have to talk."

"I'll be right back—"

"No. Make sure everything's…secured."

_Chauncey _…Chauncey… _"Clean him up Chauncey, that's a good boy…"_ Alex stepped off the edge into a black wave of fury and pain. Chauncey…and Bruce, and he knew, with a twisting stab of betrayal… _Bruce._ Every muscle in his body tightened, nausea and rage flowed through him. He stepped towards Wade, the rage he felt making everything seem brighter, clearer than ever. Very softly, with a smile, so quietly that the words were only between himself and Wade he said, "You lay one hand on my brother and I'll kill you—" __

__Alex knew it would be easy to do—enjoyable._ _

__"I told you, you didn’t have to worry about Julian." Wade spoke back as softly. "I meant it. He's not going to die. I promise you."_ _

__Alex stared at him, searching his face for any sign of a lie, and even knowing what the man was capable of, he found he believed him. He believed that Wade would do his best to keep Jules safe, just as he promised. Lex nodded. "Okay. Go with Wallma—Chauncey, Jules. It'll be okay. I'll tuck you in later."_ _

__"Lex!" Jules protested the 'tucking' in, but he smiled. "Okay. Pirates tonight?"_ _

__"Pirates, you bet." He smiled until Wallman shut the door and then turned to Wade. "What next?"_ _

__Wade lit a cigarette, and blew a thick cloud of smoke over Alex's head. He didn't speak and then he was in front of him, hand on Alex's shoulder and pressing down until his knees gave. He leaned over and kissed him, broke the thin skin of Alex's lip. When Wade pulled away, drop of blood stood out crimson against the pale pink of his lower lip. "Alex."_ _

__Alex shuddered. "You're going to kill me now, aren’t you? Don't I get a last wish?" He tried to keep his tone light." Can't you take Jules home first, please?"_ _

__Wade wiped the drop away with his thumb, shook his head. "Sorry. I can't do that."_ _

____

@@@

"It's cleaning day, boys."

There was an explosion—it felt like one. Pete tried to dash out of the kitchen, stumbling into flailing bodies, trying to shove them out of the way. The rear kitchen door cracked like a gunshot as the cooks and busboys ran through it, out to what was hopefully safety in the alley behind the club. Pete had to fight his way against them, into the club, into the screaming crowd running every which way.

_-pop-pop-_

Dishes smashed against the floor and someone started screaming, a high pitched shriek of agony. The table lights sputtered and died, the ceiling fans swirled smoke into the darkness.

_-pop-pop-pop-_

Pete weaved in and out of the tables, looking for Simon, praying the screaming he heard came from someone else, someone he didn’t know—something hot and hard bit his ear, and he clapped his hand over it. He pulled the gun up, ready to shoot—a white face swam into view, yelling something he didn’t understand or care to, he just pulled the trigger and kept pulling until the face was gone. Gunpowder burnt his nose, and now his eyes were burning and running and he still couldn’t find his brother.  
 _-pop-pop-pop-pop-_

It was dark and hot, hard to see and he tripped over someone laying spread out on the floor who stared up at him with one glazed eye, the other blown into a big red hole. A tray and dishes lay under what was left of his head. Pete dragged his eyes away from the sight—saw Royal's second in command across the dance floor, with Simon backing him up, saw them jump an over- turned table, saw them blasting away. The men around Morgan Edge were dropping, firing as they fell. Edge was tilting, dropping too, falling to one knee with a look of astonishment on his face and all around him his men were falling, outgunned, outsmarted....

"Shouldn'ta gone after the money, boy." Royal's man pumped the short shotgun he held and took aim at Morgan. He was on his back, gasping, coughing blood and still looking astonished—it was plain what he was thinking—such a thing couldn't be happening, they couldn't have been bested by people like _these._

"King Royal's got a message for you—'Cash _is_ King.' You tryin' to cut him outta his cash…tsk-tsk-tsk. Stupid." He shot, Simon shot, every man still standing shot—the noise died away, until there was only the sound of men dying.

Pete stood at Simon's back, the gun he'd emptied lost somewhere in the club…blood and gunpowder and burning food a nauseating stench that was quickly being masked by the smell of gasoline. His hands went to his ears, trying to block the sound—something thick and hot was slipping down his face.

Simon turned and did a double take—yelled at him. "What the blue fucking hell are you doing here—Pete!" He yanked Pete's hand away from his head, cursed loud and long at the blood running free. Simon swiped through the blood and prodded at Pete's ear.

A bolt of lightning jabbed the side of Pete's head. "Yowtch! Leave it be, damn it."

Simon laughed, "You got a real bee bite there, boy. You'll never lose that souvenir." They hung off each other, relief making both giddy, laughing until it hit Pete like a sledge hammer, what he'd done….  
"God damn it, Si, stop laughing. I think I killed someone tonight."

Simon sobered immediately. "Fuck, Pete—see that? That's why I didn’t want you out here. I wish you weren't a part of this, shit…come on. At least, everyone'll be safe now."

"Yeah. We going to Jersey with the rest of them, right?"

"Yeah. We going. I got tickets waiting for us. Royal wants all of us here out of the way and quick. You can get in touch with your boss after we get some miles between us and Metropolis."

The smell of gas grew stronger, and the club was emptying quick. They heard sirens in the background, and the place went up with a thick whump of gas catching and burning…in the alley the guys left standing split up, and Pete and Simon were in a car taking them to the train out of Metropolis…the word about Morgan Edge would be on the street in minutes and over the next few days there'd be some real bloodshed. Whoever was left standing was going to get the pie—and no slice of that was coming out of Royal's turf.

@@@

"—I just can't do that. Morgan can't have any loose ends…like you. He wants Jules. If…if I tell him about you, what you can do…it might save your life, but it won't be worth much." He slid the gun holstered under his arm out smooth as silk. Pushed it under Alex's chin, exactly where he'd driven his thumb a few days ago—the bruise was still there. He shook his head and a thick black curl dropped down to sweep over his red eyes. His lip twisted and he said, "I didn't know a person could _feel_ like this. This…Jesus… feels _awful._ Like I'm losing myself. I don't think I can stand it anymore."

There was a sharp knock at the door and Chauncey walked in. "He's down for the night. So, how long before we're back in the city—what's going on?" He stared at Alex on his knees. "You're going to _do_ it? I never thought you would—" Alex watched the play of conflicting emotions on Wallman's face and thought he had a good chance….

Wade gripped Alex's tie, and whatever he'd been feeling a moment ago seemed to disappear. He was himself again, cool and distant. "Well, Chauncey, yes, I am. Got no choice. Mr. Edge told me I had to. And you knew this was coming the minute we picked that boy up, so get back in the corner, all right, and _shut the fuck up."_

Chauncey had his gun out and trained on Wade, shaking his head. "Not going to let you. You put your gun up."

"You nuts? You got no choice here either, boy—not even as much as me." He wrapped Alex's tie tighter around his fist, and raised his gun to point at Chauncey. "I'm not gonna shoot you, unless I have to. I need you, you're my man. I don't wanna do it, okay? You know I'm better at this than you are."

"Doubtful, Boss—besides, at this range, neither of us got a chance—" The phone rang, and rang, and rang.

"Get the phone, Chaunce. Swear to God, I won’t do anything, all right? Go get the phone." Alex thought, this was it, last chance—Wade yanked his tie even tighter and Alex choked, fell forward until his cheek was pressed to Wade's thigh.

Chauncey backed up until his fingers hit the phone. He answered, eyes locked on Wade's. His look of surprise slowly changed into a look of fearful…relief, and he set the phone back on its hook. "Boss—Mr. Edge is dead. You ain't gotta do it now. It's all over, war's done for us. You can let them go."

Wade went white as a sheet and asked, "…what now? Explain this."

"I said, Mr. Edge is dead. You can let them go—" Alex narrowed his eyes; prayed Wallman was as good a shot as he claimed, and bit down hard on Wade's thigh. He waited for something, Wade to jump, yell, hit him—something. He tasted blood and wool and Wade grunted but never flinched. Wallman was drawing at the same moment Alex moved—Wade shot him right between the eyes and the man dropped without a sound.

"Alex," he scolded sadly. "You made me kill Chauncey." Alex froze where he was; Wade looked down on him, dropped the tie and with a finger to the forehead gently pushed an unresisting Alex away. "He was the closest thing to a friend I had." The gun tracked back to him, resettled under his chin. The barrel was warm against his skin. "I understand though. I gotta do this but don’t worry, I'll come right after you," Wade said.

"What? But—no—you don’t have to. No one's telling you what to do now—hell, you can live good off the money Lionel's going to pay to have Jules set free. Why—why do this at all now?"

"Like you said, no one's left to tell me what to do. What have I got?"

"Wife, kids…." Alex stammered, trying to think of something, someone to pull Wade back from the brink, but everyone the man had ever had some feeling for was dead or about to be.

Wade shrugged impatiently, jabbing Alex hard in the throat. "What's that stuff to me? I was only doing what Morgan wanted me to. Who am I supposed to be without him? How will I know what to do?"

He stared down at Alex, his dragon eyes filled with black fire. "No, this is—it’s better this way. You come with me. You belong with me…"

There was a crack—a tearing shriek of sound, and then a noise like explosives going off and Alex found himself on the floor, blinking away stars and trying to breathe against the sharp pain in his chest…he was on the opposite side of the library, smashed up against the doors. The wall across from him was now flaking chunks of plaster and lathe and wallpaper. The furniture he and Jules had been comfortably sitting on not long ago had been magically transformed into shattered wood and flying feathers. The place was swooping, whirling him around, something thick and warm was on his lip—he licked at blood. His first fuzzy thought was that Pete's brother's gang had decided to blow up Morgan's house. He peered through the clouds of plaster dust. He had to get to Jules, make sure he was safe…his knees refused to lock, his arms wouldn't move….

He could barely make out something moving through the breach, the billowing dust made it hard to identify but he had a wild hope of rescue, that it was—

"You! You brought this on yourself!" Clark was standing over Wade, his hand wrapped around the hand that held the gun and squeezing. Blood welled up between his fingers, such a shocking bright red….

"You tried to kill him—you must _want_ to die—" Clark's eyes were blazing, they were red, the shifting red and gold of a bon-fire…the air around his eyes shimmered…

Wade was on his knees, staring up at Clark's face…he groaned, cursed, eyes narrowed against the pain. "Go ahead, kill me, you fucking farmer. Come _on_ you stupid, cow-fucking, hayseed." With a terrible effort, he managed a grin. "Do what you want to him but he's mine. No matter how hard you fuck him he'll be thinking of me—" He choked as Clark shifted his grip from hand to neck, "—couldn't get enough of my cock; every time you kiss him you'll taste me in his mouth—"

Alex gasped when Clark slammed Wade against a wall and drew back his fist. Crumbled plaster dusted their hair white, even from where he was he could see the eager flare that lit Wade's eyes—Alex knew Wade was waiting for death. Clark was frightening—he'd never seen him in such a rage. He looked unstoppable, and Alex had a fleeting moment in which he wondered if Clark _could_ stop with Wade….

@@@

Bruce pushed through the hole Clark had smashed through. "Hey, I found Jules, but he's locked in. See if you can—shit!" He threw himself at Clark, wrapped his hands around Clark's fist and tried to hold him back—Clark considered throwing him through the wall too, for trying to stop him. He looked down into Wade's eyes and saw too little fear and he _wanted_ Wade to be so afraid, he wanted him to pee himself in fear. For what he'd done to Lex, for what he planned to do, he deserved to _burn._

"Do it," Wade croaked. "You think I'm scared to die? Fuck you—" Clark felt his lip lift, and a deep growl vibrated inside him but Wade just grinned and spit, thick and wet against his chest. "You'd be doing me a favor, you bastard." There, nearly hidden in those flat black eyes, something was begging, something basic and human crying out—

Clark shook his head. He didn’t want to see it, didn't want to answer it—he wanted to crush it out, so he backed away, backed away until he was standing over Lex, then kneeling next to him and Lex threw an arm around him. Bruce took his place over Wade. Wade pulled his collar open, exposing ugly red-purple bruises painting his neck. His voice was harsh and thick with pain when he spoke. "Well, well, look who it is—the whore. Did you tell Killer over there what you did to his sweetheart? How I made you fuck him too? Paid you pretty good for that—"

Plaster chips and lathe flew as Bruce shot into the wall next to Wade's head. "Shut up. Shut your mouth or I'll kill you right now."

Wade chuckled. "You're not getting it—threatenin' to kill me ain't going to work. Hey, you'll be going to hell with me, anyway. The goons left are gonna fight over every square inch of what Edge had and what they can't split up, they'll shit all over. And I'm betting all his boys will go up in flames."

"You'll die too and that's fine with me."

Wade exhaled, grinned. He said, "You act like I'm the one who fucked your life up. I was just along for the ride when they iced your old lady, that was Morgan's call—and he was the one turned you out, made you like it—" Wade slid along the wall with the force of the first blow—the second one splashed blood over the exposed plaster, and Bruce drew his fist back for another strike. Clark jerked, almost coming to his knees. He should stop Bruce…he glanced at Lex, his lips were blue and he was shivering, pale…he had one hand clutched over his side and Clark could see cracked ribs. He needed to end this but he couldn’t leave Lex, he couldn't.

Bruce slammed the butt of his gun into Wade's cheek—he laid him out on the rug, cheek split wide open and bleeding. A foot to the ribs lifted him, rolled him to the side and Wade grunted, laughed.

Bruce snarled, "You bastard, you don’t know how much I _want_ to kill you—for what you've done—for—for all the _evil_ you've made in the world. But I'm not your judge."

Wade stared at him wide eyed, seemed surprised he was going to live. "Come on, Bruce. Give me one good break in this fucking, lousy world. Please."

Bruce shook his head. "Too much to pay for, Wade…too much to pay for. You want me to give you more of a break than you gave Chauncey—"

Clark glanced at Lex, mouthed 'who'? Lex shook his head. "Later, later—go make sure Wade doesn't manage to talk Bruce into killing him."

"Why? That rattlesnake doesn't deserve—he was going to _kill_ // you!"

"Because…you heard Bruce. Wade's got too much to pay for. And I don't want him getting off that easy. After what he did…I want payback." He looked up at Clark and said, "and I don’t think Bruce deserves to be a murderer along with…” he shook his head. ”Go stop him."

Lex had barely finished speaking before he was at Bruce's side, hand over his, gently but steadily forcing the gun away from Wade. "You're all done here, Bruce. You did good. I'm proud of you. Go on and take Lex and Jules home; I'll take Wade to the cops. Let them deal the justice, the way it should be."

"Met cops are dirty—he'll never get real justice—"

"We'll watch, Beebs, we'll make sure it happens… come on, Beebs, please listen to Clark," Lex broke in.

Clark watched Bruce relax, muscle by muscle, until he dropped him arm to holster his gun. He stopped, looked at it like a man might look at a snake, and shoved it at Clark. Clark nodded and tucked it in his waistband. "Okay."

Clark dragged a quiet, compliant Wade upright. He was silent even when Clark roughly pulled his mangled hand behind his back and tied his wrists together. Clark figured he'd knock him out, and drop him off at MPD headquarters, with a note detailing why this particular prisoner deserved special care. Before they left the room, Wade looked back at Lex. "I wish you felt even a little bit of what I feel for you. You wouldn’t do this to me if you did."

Clark grimaced and knocked the man unconscious. "Sorry."

Lex shook his head, "Go on. Get rid of him."

@@@

It was still dark but wouldn't be for long. The sun was promising to rise in the distance, and he could just see the path ahead of them and the edge of the wall that circled the property. The pre-dawn air was so still, so quiet the gravel crunching underfoot sounded loud as gun shot and he could see Julian flinch from time to time. Bruce put a little distance between himself and Lex and his brother, giving them a bit of privacy, and a chance for Lex to sooth the boy—he was whispering encouragement, praising Jules for being so strong, so brave…out of the corner of his eye he could see Lex wrap the blanket Jules had draped around him a little tighter.

They moved towards what had once been stables, but was now a garage large enough to house a fleet of cars. The doors hung open; the staff having abandoned ship the minute Clark and Bruce had broken through security...Bruce figured that was sensible. He took a set of car keys from his pocket and held them out to Lex who took them, carefully not touching him.

"Thanks." He turned and unlocked the sedan door so that Jules could climb in. The boy was snow-pale, and his unruly red hair seemed even redder and Bruce had the oddest feeling, a deep regret he hadn't known Lex when he had hair that color…he shook himself. Through the car's window, Jules' face was a white smear in the dark interior. He huddled on the passenger seat, bent and shivering.

Lex turned to Bruce with a cold smile, the smile that reminded Bruce of the smile he reserved for…tricks and squares. 

"Thank you, for Jules' sake," Lex said, and stopped, looked up at the graying sky... "You know, I don’t know what made you help Clark, but I'm glad of it. If he owes you anything, _I'll_ pay it." He laughed bitterly. "You really fooled me. I thought that tramp act you used to pull with me was just that, an act. Guess not if you let Wade pay you to do what you did to me…" His voice rose, cracked, "I couldn’t do anything to _defend_ myself and you—you—"

Jules leaned out of the window. "Lex… what's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Jules. I'm just saying good-bye to Bruce." Jules sank back onto the seat, and Lex's voice dropped but still shook as he spoke. "I thought you were a friend, but all you've ever been is a whore. Worse. Don't come near me again."

Lex turned his back on him and Bruce clenched his hands tight.

It hurt too much to move, or breathe, so Bruce just watched the car drive through the gate and back towards Metropolis. A minute, he'd take a minute and pull himself together…he'd been through worse than this, damn it, much worse than this….

He was still standing on the path when Clark landed next to him. "I heard. And I understand what happened, I think. You didn't have much of a choice, not really. You did what you had to do to protect him—and yourself. But if I were you, I'd heed what Lex said. Don't try to contact him. I'd have to stop you." Clark sounded regretful.

Bruce sucked in a shaky breath, and said, "I'm not an idiot. I don’t plan to bother him again." He turned away, and Clark reached out, stopped him.

"Bruce…it won’t be forever. He'll think about what happened and why and he'll see that none of you had a choice. And then…maybe we can be friends again."

Bruce looked at Clark. "Would you want that?"

Clark nodded. "Yes, I would. Very much. Give him time…I know he'll come to understand, some day."

Bruce nodded and held his hand out. "I won’t forget you."

Clark took it in both of his. "I won’t forget you either. For all you did for both of us," Clark said, with no trace of irony, and Bruce winced. Sure. Someday… someday all would be forgiven. He felt Clark leave him, hurrying on his way towards Lex. At least he wouldn't have to worry about Lex anymore. Bruce thought about what he'd said to Clark up there on the roof, about being jealous of Lex—against all odds, Lex had found love, had found freedom to be himself, to just— _be._

Well, all right…it was time for a change, wasn't it? Bruce walked through the gate, headed for the road. The way back wasn't going to be any more pleasant than the trip here had been, and sure was going to be a fucking lot longer, he thought wryly. Hell, it didn't even make sense to go back to Metropolis now…Burma would be nice this time of year…maybe Nepal. An ocean between himself and Metropolis—that ought to give him time to figure out just who he was…or could be.

@@@

The informal dining room was pretty much as he remembered, twice as big as his apartment—he looked around and snorted—three times as big, one wall all windows, framed by heavy drapes and rope. In the mornings and the afternoon, they were filled with a view of the carefully maintained rose gardens and the wrought iron gazebo that had been one of his mother's favorite spots in the garden. Tonight, they were black and full of reflected candlelight, and the golden glitter of the chandeliers. Roses from the bouquet on the sideboard scented the air, and competed with the smell of fresh rolls and leek soup, his favorite. Every item on the menu was his favorite, or what had been his favorite at sixteen.

The table was almost as long as the formal one, long enough that if they were fighting, there was plenty of space between seats and you wouldn’t have to hear the stutter of angry breath and feel hot eyes burning into you. Tonight, though, tonight they sat close, bathing in warmth, love. Jules smiled so hard it almost hurt Alex. His blue eyes danced, in the candlelight they looked even bluer and his red hair blazed, exactly the shade his own had been when he…was younger. He glanced at his father and his father was staring at Jules as well. When Alex caught his eyes, he was sure they'd been thinking same thought. Lionel smiled at him and Alex felt comfortable enough to smile back.

The servants brought in the first course. Alex was grateful to be able to concentrate on his soup, on the creamy feel of the linen under his fingertips. The spoon clinked gently against his teeth, and the edge was smooth, no trace of roughness, no slight bite of the burrs cheap flatware sometimes had. He had no idea why that seemed so…large a thing, or why it made him a little sad. He sipped his excellent soup and listened to his dad and Jules converse, the talk fluttered between work, school, hobbies…Alex listened without adding anything to the conversation. He just couldn’t see talking about the Al-Kazar, or Walt and Chloe getting married, or how they'd canned the new Piano who was talented but a hop-head, and how Clark was out looking for Pete, to tell him to come back home, all was safe again because everyone who might hold a grudge was dead or in jail …so, yeah. Not conducive to a relaxed dinner conversation. This—dressing for dinner, servants, crystal and silver, all of this—was as foreign now as if he'd never experienced it.

"…and we're going up against Princeton Academy next week, I hope you can make it—it's early evening so it shouldn’t interfere with your band."

Damn. He had no idea what his brother had just asked—"Lex, I do believe Jules has overtaken you in your enthusiasm for fencing. I know you'd enjoy seeing him."

Alex cast his dad a grateful look and smiled at Jules. "Wild horses couldn’t keep me away, squirt. I'll be there."

"Do you think your friend can come? I'd like to get to know him better. He…I want to thank him."

For a moment Alex thought he meant Beebs—Bruce Wayne—but he realized he'd meant Clark, the other half of his heroic rescue. "I can ask him kid, something tells me he'd get a bang out of seeing you fence."

Jules nodded, pink with pleasure. They finished the main course, and after the dessert, it was Jules' bedtime. Alex was about to offer to walk him back with him to his room when the door opened, and in walked an older man, a servant familiar to Alex, carrying a tray with a decanter and two tumblers on it, and behind him, a young woman he'd never seen before.

The man set the tray down, and placed the decanter and glasses in from of Lionel, and smiled at Alex. He placed a crystal ashtray and a cigarette box in front of him, and said, "Master Lex, good to see you home, sir."

It felt weird to have Alfred address him as sir…"It's good to be here, Alfred."

He nodded, bid them good evening and left. Jules came to his feet and threw his arms around Alex's neck. "Are you staying tonight? Don’t leave without telling me good night if you aren't."

"I'm not staying, but I'll be in to say good-bye, even if I have to wake you up. Promise," he said, and Jules kissed his cheek, ran over and kissed his dad good night.

The young woman waiting for Jules was tall, dark and severe. Her face was clean of makeup; her black hair was pulled back into a painfully tight bun. She seemed expressionless, but her eyes were warm as she watched Jules, a warmth that quickly frosted when she caught Alex watching her. She held her hand out to Jules who brushed past it rather haughtily, Alex thought, and she followed him out with a faint hint of an approving smile.

After Jules had left, he raised an eyebrow at his dad. "So who was that? New help? A…nanny?" His expression must have shown just how bewildered he was by the idea, so much so that Lionel choked out a laugh.

"No, no, God, no—" Lionel poured out drinks between them. "She's his body guard." He shrugged at Alex's startled 'hunh'. "She's very well trained—very well. And it helps Jules to relax. He's been…rather tense since the, the kidnapping. Very…he needs so much reassurance—touches…it's as if he's regressed to a younger age."

Alex nodded. "Sure, I understand that, I do..." Alex felt a sharp stab of grief for Jules. He was waking up in the middle of the night himself, to the feel of that gun drilling in under his chin and God, those eyes…

"Mercedes is worth her weight in gold if she helps Jules to feel safe. I'm sorry that it has to be, but we do what we must…what about yourself, son? How are you, after…after…?"

"Clark helps." He smiled at his dad. "He helps a lot."

Lionel glanced away and back. After a moment he said, "I'm glad."

They were silent for a bit, sipping scotch, being civilized, restrained, being…Luthors. Alex lit a cigarette, watched the smoke drift before speaking. Trying to figure out what to say—how to say it. "So…I'm here because you wanted to talk to me?"

"Son, I need someone to help me overhaul the company, to excise the contaminated parts, make it whole. I want you to join me in the business. I want you to come home." He stopped and Alex exhaled quietly. It was pretty much what he'd expected his dad to say.

"I love you—anything I did was out of love even if it didn’t feel like it or look like it. I knew you could do it, I knew you'd survive, thrive even. You're a winner son, I made you a winner." He said again, "I love you, Alex."

Alex nodded thoughtfully. "I know. I know you love me. Thing is Dad, my life is full of people who loved me, and then hurt me for 'my own good'. For a long time I thought the best way to protect myself was not ever to love, and I thought I was happy—safe anyway. And then I found it might be possible to love and not be hurt." He grinned wryly at his dad. "I'm hoping for that anyway. The mere fact I'm willing to risk being hurt for him, I'd say was a step in the right direction. As for working for you? I don’t know Dad, I'm not sure if that is the right direction. That's something I'll have to think about."

He expected harsh words, dismissal, but Dad surprised him. "All right, my boy. You take your time thinking about my offer. It will stand." He stood, and walked around the table. He took Alex's hand. "I'm not trying to make up for what happened, Lex. I'm trying to start something new between us. I hope that you'll give me a chance one day."

Alex shrugged. "You've done a good job with Jules. He's a terrific kid. He seems happy. Even now, with everything that happened, it's plain to see he's sure that he's loved."

Lionel dropped Alex's hand. "I've tried my best."

All the way home, Alex thought of his father's offer, and wondered if it was the right thing to do. Bruce had told Clark he envied Alex his freedom, that it had been a gift from his dad. It was an expensive gift for the both of them…but maybe Bruce was right. Maybe what he had now was a freedom too important to throw away.

He took a cab to the Luxor and from there he walked to Clark's apartment. He ran up the stairs, and down his hallway, he planned to kick the door until Clark opened it but before he could touch it the door flew open; Clark grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him inside.

His eyes were huge and dark with fear—"What? What is it? What's wro—uh!"

Alex crushed his mouth against Clark's like he was trying to inhale him, in seconds he was moaning, twisting against him—he yanked Clark's suspenders down, tore his shirt and ripped his fly open—he waited for Clark to push him away, instead, Clark whirled him around and dumped him on the bed so hard the springs shrieked. Alex lay on his back, blinking. "Clark…"

He didn’t answer; he was busy shedding what was left of his clothes. Alex licked his lips, couldn't look away…he was so hard. Clark stroked himself, his palm curving over his erection, but his eyes were a million miles away, and then—he focused on Alex again.

"Okay," Clark said. He looked like he'd been confronted with some difficult puzzle, one he was going to work out, no matter what it took. "Okay," he repeated, and pulled Alex's shoes off, and Alex toed off his socks, grinned when Clark made a show of carefully unbuttoning his trousers, tossing Alex an annoyed look. Alex bit his cheek to keep from smiling—he'd pretty much destroyed Clark's. It was okay, he'd buy him another pair. Clark pulled the pants off, pointedly folded them—and tossed them somewhere in the vicinity of the table.

He pulled Alex's shirt off, and gave a pleased little huff at the expected lack of undershirt, and stroked Alex from neck to hip. "You're so beautiful. You're like velvet, like satin and velvet." Sliding lower, he kissed Alex's calves, one after the other, licked around his kneecaps until Alex snorted and jerked away. Clark snickered. He unbuttoned and pulled the underwear down, his hands curving over Alex's hips as he did, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin. Alex groaned—it was so small a thing but it sent waves of warmth through him, arousal, and more…he was so much in love it made him dizzy. Clark mouthed his dick, licked loops around his head, nipped the inside of his thigh. Alex shivered, a low moan rolled out of his throat and Clark grinned—Alex felt it against his skin. He didn't protest when Clark stopped, moved lower and pushed his nose into his balls, and moaned himself.

"Love the way you smell, the way you taste…" the wet warm feel of Clark's tongue pressing against him, the barest touch of teeth, just enough to make him suck in a startled breath…Clark pushed his thighs back, pulled him open. Alex shuddered, "don’t, you don’t have to do that—"

"Shhhh…" Clark slid his tongue along his cleft and stopped where he was most sensitive, right over the tight whorl of muscle, right where he couldn't stop his hips from bucking up, a whine bursting free. Clark chuckled again and that sharp burst of air against his sensitive skin did crazy things to him—

"Oh God, maybe you should stop, I—fuck…"

"Nope, not going to, you always say that—" and twirled his tongue over his hole, nudged inward, pushed in—fucked him, until Alex was wet and open and almost screaming with the feeling.

Clark reached out over him, swiped his hand over the crate that held his books, his lamp, opened a little wicker box and pulled out—

"Rubbers? Were you that certain?" Alex snapped, annoyed, aroused, and annoyed with himself for bring so aroused, for not being able to hide the fact that he really, really wanted Clark to fuck him…

"I got them for you to, you know…when you, if you…wanted to fu—fuck me."

No one who'd had their tongue that deep inside you should be able to blush that hard, Alex thought. Clark pulled back, head down, his hair falling over his eyes. "I'm sorry; I thought…I mean…I thought it might change things for you. Stupid, I know."

"Clark, don’t—I'm just—God, yes it’s the best idea in the world—" He was on the verge of babbling, because it occurred to him—it _was_ perfect. This was a way to wipe away everything, or—or—some of it, and then he stopped thinking. Clark was over him again, and asking, "Are you sure?" and there was so much in his eyes, so much—"I love you, Lex, I want to help you, to make it…better…"

Alex reached up, grabbed handfuls of Clark's hair and pulled him down into a bruising kiss that left Clark gasping in surprise. He felt the hot weight of him twitch on his stomach, was unbearably aware of how smooth and soft his own skin was. Clark groaned and jerked again, his hips surged upwards and his dick swiped a long, hot streak across Alex's belly, it made him want so much. "Clark—just. Fuck me, okay? No more waiting, now, please."

Clark bit his lip and shook his head. He rolled a rubber down over himself; big hands making it look like delicate work, watching himself smooth it down, plump lower lip caught between his teeth—

Alex trembled from head to toe. _Oh my God this—this *being*, this angel, this boy, I swear, he's going to be the death of me…_ He grinned. "But what a way to go…"

"What?" Clark smiled uncertainly, Alex shook his head. Clark licked his lips, "Should I, now?"

"Absolutely. Yes."

Clark reached between them and lined himself up with Alex, nerves making his hand twitch and every twitch rubbed the broad hot head across his hole and it felt like warm electricity. "Tell me if I hurt you," Clark whispered.

"Oh, no worry there," Alex said, "I'm not that into pain—oh—" He gasped, his eyes rolled back when the head of Clark's dick popped inside—it took his breath away. Clark stopped immediately.

"Oh God, I knew it—I hurt you!"

Alex kicked a heel into Clark's back, "No you goof, it felt…God, so good…" He arched and moaned low in his throat as Clark pushed in and in and in…"fuck me."

Clark began to move, so carefully at first, then deeper, faster as his confidence, his need grew, and Alex felt shock after shock of pleasure—Clark slid his hands under him, cupped his ass and tilted his hips, instinct or just "Oh god, really, really good at this," Alex babbled to himself, and the shocks turned into stars exploding and showering through his body. His dick was aching for touch and Clark wrapped one hand around him and Alex pushed up into the circle of his hand.

"Oh. Sorry Lex, not going to last much longer…"

"It's okay, just keep doing what you're doing, it's—oh God. Just like that—"

Clark's face screwed up in concentration, Alex watched his eyes grow darker; the blush on his cheeks spread down his neck and flooded his chest, a single drop of salt fell on Alex's lip. He felt Clark twitch inside him, begged, "Clark not yet, not yet."

"Sorry, trying, sorry, oh—oh!" He looked shocked—mouth open in astonishment as he came. The look, the feel of Clark coming inside him, the rough-gentle tug of his hand sent Alex over the edge. He felt like he was flying apart over and over and every bit of him was filled with pleasure so deep it was almost pain. Every muscle tightened—Clark yowled, shook; he arched and his hips stuttered against him….

Alex was stunned—"You can’t—that's not—did you just come again?"

Clark was leaning on his elbows, his head right above Alex's. His eyes were closed, sweat drenched him, and he was panting, all he could do was nod, too short of breath to speak.

Alex tried to press his lips together but it didn't help— what he assured himself was a manly chuckle and not a self-satisfied giggle at all still managed to leak out….

Clark gasped a little laugh. "Cheshire—cat—you—" he pulled out gently as he could, looked briefly alarmed when Alex gasped but smiled when he let out a long breathy sigh of satisfaction. They both collapsed into the tangle of damp sheets, wrapped around each other.

"Ugh. Wet." Alex complained. "And this bed is horribly small, Clark—how do you manage it?

Clark kissed Alex's nose, his chin, and flicked his tongue over his mouth. "Bed I can't help, wet I can do something about," Clark said, rolling to his feet.

Alex bit back a smile as Clark removed the rubber just as carefully as he'd applied it, tossing it with a little moue of distaste. Alex beamed as he watched him—Clark was so unselfconscious…he turned and stared intently at a bowl of water on the little porcelain hotplate, and Alex wondered just what he was staring at so hard when the bowl began steaming…"Oh…" Clark looked over his shoulder, tense for a moment until Alex smiled. "Convenient".

He dipped a towel into the hot water, and used it to clean Alex, who stretched like a cat under the smooth warm strokes. "I think I could spend my whole life spoiling you rotten."

"You could try," Alex smirked.


	14. Chapter 14

Morning made itself known, bit by bit…the sunlight that leaked around the shades was still dawn weak, but it was enough to pry Alex's eyes open. He stretched—he _tried_ to stretch, but there was a weight pinning him to the mattress. An arm, a leg, a hip…a mop of damp black hair fanned over his chest…Clark was snoring, his cheek stuck to Alex's skin. He was hot, a furnace really, and Alex could feel little beads of sweat between them, rolling down his ribs and his neck, and Clark's body hair pricked and tickled him from chest to hip. It was hot in the little room, stuffy and close. The cheap sheets were sweat-damp, he was sticky and he smelled. And he was happier than he could ever remember being.

"Mmm, Lex, I can feel you're awake. Why aren't you sleeping?" Clark yawned, and unfolded more of himself across Lex.

"Because I'm being baked in a creaky little bed by a walking stove. And I'm sweating, and I stink—and how." He made a face, wrinkling his nose. "Get off!" He tried to swat Clark away when he made a sloppy attempt at kissing his nose.

Clark chuckled, "I'm glad to see you too…boy, are you hungry as I am? 'Cause I'm _starving."_

Alex snorted at his tone of surprise—-when was Clark not hungry?

"Should I make something?" Clark asked and rolled to his back, and Alex almost regretted the loss of his heat. "I can make oatmeal, or toast…what do you want, Lex—coffee or tea?"

"I want you to heat the water again so that we can get cleaned up and dressed and get some real breakfast."

Clark pouted, but heated up the water again. "It's ready," he said to Alex with a mischievous smile—there was a brief blur, a little breeze and a fully dressed Clark was holding out a steaming towel with a smile.

"All reet," Alex breathed. "This…this is going to be the most interesting partnership in the history of the world."

Just before they left the room, Clark blurred out of sight again and when he came back, he was holding a pale yellow rosebud. He slipped it into Alex's button hole, kissed him on the cheek.

"Thank you, love, this is nice. Where did you get it from?" Alex asked, his fingertip flicking away the few drops of dew still on the petals.

"From…from…not here. Let's go eat, hunh?"

@@@

There were very few places that Alex felt an attachment to, very few people—but Anna's café was a place where he felt warm and comfortable and she had managed to endear herself to Alex by being very blatant in caring about him.

Sure enough as soon as they stepped over the threshold, Anna was there to greet them with open arms. Clark looked at him from the corner of his eye, a little smirk curving his mouth. He seemed to thoroughly enjoy the scolding Alex was getting.

"Where have you been in so long? I thought you abandon me for someone else? Naughty boy. And you look like you've eaten nothing since you came here last…thin as a stick, a crime. Sit, and I'll bring you a coffee and your handsome young man a café au lait, whipped cream on top. And he'll want an American breakfast, am I right? We'll do two eggs for him, and extra bacon, of course. Alexander you will have the same." Not really a question, more of an order, Alex thought. He sat back and relaxed, smiling at an open mouthed Clark.

"You look a little overwhelmed," he said.

"Steamrollered is the word," Clark grinned. "What's a café au lait?"

Alex shrugged. "Coffee sweet, with milk, the way you like it. Clark, listen…I talked with my father recently. He asked me to come home, go into the business with him." He took a cigarette out of a sliver case, flipping it in his fingers, over and over. Clark watched him do it and waited patiently for Alex to speak…

Alex sighed. "Business…all that stuff, I never cared about it. What interested me as a child was science. I…was briefly interested in writing, but…" He jerked his shoulder in a not quite shrug. "Besides, Dad is still Dad, and I'm still me and…" He tapped the cigarette on the table, lips pressed into a thin, pale line.

"And you’re not sure if joining your dad is the right thing to do?" Clark studied him. "Science, hunh? Not music? I'm surprised. The way you are about practice, performing…you work so hard, I just thought that music was a part of you."

"Well, there's no point in doing something unless you try to do it well…" Alex leaned back and lit the cigarette. "Truth, I got into it late—I picked it up here and there, hanging around the clubs way back when Dad kicked me out. I'm no more than adequate. It amazes me Walt hasn’t shown me the door yet."

"Are you kidding? You're kidding—you have to know how good you are—hey, Mac White invited you to blow with his band on stage— _you,_ not Miller."

He shrugged carelessly. "I figured he did it to insult Miller, you know—not inviting him on stage in favor of a local."

"Alex. Don't do that. You know how good you are—and if you don’t, than believe me when I tell you, you're better than good." Clark blushed and looked down, and they were both spared having to speak when one of the waiters swept up to their table with their orders. They watched his movements as if they'd never seen so fine a performance in their lives—they were both so intent on his actions that he finished off with a flourish and nearly a command to enjoy their breakfast.

Alex looked up first. "I dig that you love me and I love you back, you know that…I'm just. Damn. I admit I'm confused and I don’t handle confusion very well. It's—things have changed completely and so quickly and I'm not sure where I stand or what I should do…about anything. Do you have any idea how that feels Clark?"

"Hunh. I think I do." Clark took a quick sip of coffee, grinned uneasily. "I know that you want to have some kind of relationship with your family, especially your brother, and I guess I want that for you too but…think hard about joining with your dad. Bruce said something to me that I understand a little better now; he said that your freedom was a gift—"

"Bruce? He can go to hell for all I care."

"Lex, you—look, forget Bruce. Just think about this—you have to choose your own path, make your own decision. And having said that, I'm gonna ask you to choose me," Clark said, and flushed. "I'm not really helping any, am I?"

"Not really. But—I want to. Even though this thing we have here—it's almost as scary as meeting with my dad," Alex smiled wryly. "I don’t have any practice with—with being in love like this. The only other time I thought it was love, so many people got hurt…" Alex sighed. "Ah, shit. We'll talk about that some other day. It's not that big a deal."

Clark was staring at him again, his green eyes seemed to pin him to his seat. "It is a big deal, Lex, of all people I know how big a deal it is. How scary it is to let love in, mostly because of Whit…but you know, since then, I've met so many people who cared—Chloe, Walt, Pete, Willy…and Reggie, I'll have to tell you about him some day. I owe him a lot. He really looked out for me, brought me to Metropolis—" Clark stopped and stared at some distant point. "He was so sad. Like one day he'd just walked off the path and gave up on life."

Alex nodded, "Yeah, well…sometimes all it takes is a day, Clark. But he still cared enough to help you. That counts for something. And if he brought you here, than in a way I owe him too—he made it possible for us to meet, right?" Alex laughed, and blushed a bit. "Listen to me. Being around you turns me into a romantic sap."

Clark grinned. "I don’t mind. Not at all."

@@@

_“Some things that happened for the first time_  
 _Seem to be happenin' again_  
 _And so it seems that we have met before,_  
 _And laughed before, and loved before,_  
 _But who knows where or when."_

It was just about perfect. The last trembling note of _When or Where_ died away, and when Clark opened his eyes he was almost surprised to see Chloe smiling at him, he'd felt Lex so strongly while he was singing. He could feel the smile on his own face and he knew how the two of them looked, the very picture of high school sweethearts. The audience ate it up, clapping and whistling as they swirled around the dance floor. Clark leaned in and kissed her cheek, she sparkled when she smiled, and dipped a little curtsy at the crowd.

The spots went from gold, to white, to blue, a signal that they were heading into the last set of the evening. Lex stalked towards the front of the stage, head down—he looked to be totally concentrated on what was to come.

The band swung into another tune, ready for Lex to take center stage. Lex tossed a quick look, a small smile on his lips that lit a little fire in Clark…a memory, so sharp that he almost gasped, filled him…sitting on Lex's bed, watching him lift the clarinet to his lips, fingers he knew were strong, warm, relentless, caressing the keys, and wishing Lex was touching him….

In the memory, Lex was standing shirtless in the windows, warm morning light gilding him, turning ivory to gold—and his suspenders framing his perfect, perfect….ass. Clark bit his lip—his trousers were definitely tighter than they had been. He shifted, feeling warmth flood his cheeks, and just at that moment Lex turned and winked at him, and his gray eyes widened just a bit before a lazy heat filled smile graced his face. He turned, the lights went down and he was bathed in blue.

Nightmare. Clark frowned just a tiny bit. He wasn't too crazy about the tune…not that it wasn't a good tune, and it was a great showcase for Lex. It just…made him feel uneasy. As far as he was concerned it was one long cry of pain. Clark shuddered. No one else seemed to feel that way about it so he just smiled and took his seat next to Chloe. But as the song played on, as Lex poured his heart out into the night, he found Chloe's fingers in his own. He sighed, and she squeezed lightly.

Most of the people in the club tonight, including Chloe, had no idea what had happened recently. Clark hoped sincerely that she would never know. Everywhere in Metropolis, the changes were making themselves felt. For all it was supposed to be the boulevard of lights, Bessolo Boulevard was full of shadows, and folks in the know walked faster, looked over their shoulder a little more often …

"Cheer up, CC. You look like it's the end of the world…no matter what he did, he loves you okay? Want me to talk some sense into him?" she whispered.

"What—oh! No, no, it's nothing Alex did." He snorted and whispered back, "Just please don’t hurt my—my man. Promise, he's been good."

She didn’t look convinced, muttered something about leopards and spots, and high heels and butts….

The tone lightened and the band took off into something wild and hot and the kid tickling the ivories was doing a pretty good job, but he was no Pete. Clark caught the look of exasperation Lex wasn't even trying to hide. He shook his head. He hadn't found Pete—he hadn’t heard him or seen him. He had his fingers crossed that he'd contact him or Lex…he had to, piano was in his blood and barring New Orleans, this was the best place for him.

@@@

"Okay. You probably—I know you heard rumors going 'round these last few months—well, I can tell ya at least one of 'em is true. The Luxor has changed hands again. Who's the boss—not sure." Walt shoved his hand through his hair before going on, "Now, nothin's going to change—'cept for the better—for us. I got that straight from the horse's mouth—"

Alex wiggled his eyebrows, and tried to subtly point with his chin—the whole band kind of shifted a bit, putting a little bit of distance between their boss and themselves. Walt blanched. "Horse behind me?"

Alex muttered, "Oh yeah, gate, right behind you…"

Mr. Louis was standing in the doorway, hands clasped behind him. "Greetings, all. I see Walter has informed you about the change in ownership. As you may know, the former owner was forced to sell…it seems he had a death in the family. Several." Mr. Louis' smile was full of deep satisfaction. "Things are looking up, boys, looking up. Mr. Cook, if you and you also, Mr. Roth, would come to my office at your earliest convenience?"

Walt nodded. "Sure thing, Mr. Louis. Sir."

Mr. Louis was stationary in the doorway.

Walt gulped. "Hah! Say, whadaya know—looks like we got time right now—"

Mr. Louis smiled, and sailed out and Alex and Walt scrambled to follow.

Once in his office, Mr. Louis waited patiently as Walt and Alex sat themselves and then said, "Walter. I've gone over your contract…there were some oddities in it I corrected. I believe this leaves you free to compete in the Battle of the Bands in Gotham City…" he checked a leather bound calendar on his desk,"…the first of July. Not quite Independence Day, but close enough, yes." He ignored Walt's open mouthed surprise. "I believe the competition and a honey moon dovetail nicely. I think the new management would be happy to foot the bill. Let me be the first to congratulate you."

Walt began to stammer as Mr. Louis handed him a stuffed envelope. "I can't…I shouldn't…"

"Go on, Walter; let your lovely bride-to-be in on the good news. Alexander, if you'd stay please."

"Of course." Alex felt like he was staring into the mouth of a cannon, a big red x painted on his chest.

Mr. Louis sat squarely in the high back leather chair, elbows planted on the desk top, his hands folded. He was silent for long seconds, so long that Alex was able to keep from fidgeting only because he'd been well trained not to….

Mr. Louis sighed deeply. "Change has come, Mr. Roth, change has come. Or should I say Mr. Luthor?"

"Luthor, Roth—it really doesn’t matter anymore."

"Mmm. You know Alexander, I've had my eye on you for some time, and I must say—I'm somewhat disappointed in you."

Alex felt a surprising jolt at that—"I hardly think you know me well enough to be disappointed with me." He tried for dry sarcasm, but his voice cracked. He had a brief intense flash of memory…his dad's office and muffled crying….

"I'm disappointed it took so long for you to rid yourself of that parasite Mahaney. I thought at some point you'd realize that he had no real hold on you, but…" He tapped the desktop with his long, thin, manicured fingers, surprisingly thin for such a big man. Alex blinked. His mind was wandering and Mr. Louis was looking at him…"Your father owns the Luxor, did you know that? I see you didn’t. That makes you my superior, doesn't it?"

"No, it means Lionel Luthor owns the Luxor. I have no idea why…nothing's changed for me, Mr. Louis. My life is the same it's always been."

Mr. Louis nodded. "I'm glad to hear it. We'll talk more about this when you return." He stood. "Your father is…an interesting man, Alexander."

"He is that." Alex sighed. He should have known…one way or another, if Lionel thought he needed to be back in the fold, he was going to make it happen.

@@@

They were on the train, celebrating the wedding of the year, as far as the band was concerned. They were singing around the piano and passing bottles of champagne from table to table. Chloe sang from her perch on the piano, swinging her legs and belting out a hot version of Green Eyes. Walt was leaning on the side of the high backed piano, staring up at her like she was the sun. She still wore the creamy white dress, and little white hat she'd been married in.

Walt held up a glass and shouted, "June 29th—don't anyone forget this day—ever!" The band hollered back, whistled and stomped as Walt and Chloe drank champagne together. He let out a whoosh and crowed, "The day yours truly became the luckiest man—hey Mrs. Cook, you look like a million bucks!"

"You ain't so bad yerself, Mr. Cook—c'mere, let me plant one on ya!"

"Okay—and let's just have that glass, whadaya say? I think you're good and oiled now, Baby!"

"You might be right—" she winked broadly and tilted a bit sideways on the piano. "Whoops!" He swept her off, and she threw her arms around him. She whispered wetly in his neck, "Not really all that drunk, you know…" they kissed, long enough to bring out the little boys in the men around them. There was whistling and a chorus of catcalls, and one of the guys pounded out Tiger Rag on the ivories, so naturally the band fell in, shouting, _"Where's that tiger, hold that tiger, hold that tiger…"_

A blast of cool air blew into the car, swirling through the smoke…Clark stood in the open car doors and let an uneasy looking Pete in. "Hey guys, look who I found."

They crowded enthusiastically around Pete, who looked pleased at the welcome. Clark was grinning ear from ear, and Alex was right behind them both, smirking. "He found him all right, standing right on the platform, coming in from Jersey. We didn't even let him take his hat off—snatched him right up."

Clark grinned. "Yep, easy as pie," but the glance he tossed back through the doors said 'don’t make me angry again'. 

Alex grinned. It hadn't been quite as Clark claimed, getting a colored man on that part of the train—certainly not easy as pie—but he had a feeling from now on, it would be for Pete, at least. Clark could be quite…persuasive.

Pete was grinning as wide as Clark. "Hey Walt, Chloe, congratulations." He looked Walt up and down. "Look at you, son, togged to the bricks—-and your missus is extra ow!" He shook his hand like it burned and Walt beamed and straightened his bow tie.

"Yeah, well…a fella only gets married once. So I hear." Chloe elbowed him—hard.

"I really wanted to be there…" Pete started, and Chloe grabbed him into a hug.

"Hey, Pete, don’t you worry about that—we know you had family stuff—I'm just glad it's all right now. Gee, we're damn glad you’re here now!" Chloe pulled him over to the piano, and shoved the poor guy playing it off the bench. "There ya go, Pete, show these mooks how Tiger Rag's supposed to go…"

@@@

He was sitting in the last row of seats in the dark Pullman car, alone. The guys were settling in their seats, conversation low and slow…pillows were coming out, along with blankets. Walt and Chloe were in their sleeper, courtesy of Mr. Louis. He'd been awfully generous, paying for their tickets and all.

Alex rested his cheek against the window, watching lights fly by in the dark, a faint smile on his face. Clark reached up and grabbed a blanket and pillows from the compartment overhead and slid in next to him. He turned his face to Clark. "Hey." He reached out his hand and Clark took it, eased in next to him.

"Hey yourself. Here, I have something I want you to look at." Clark dropped an envelope into Lex's lap.

"Shanghai? Who do you know in Shanghai?" he asked and looked closer at the address…"Bee—Bruce." He tossed it back to Clark. "No thanks."

"Come on Lex, I've got a stack of postcards and a bunch of letters and they all ask the same question—'will Lex forgive me?' Come on. At least look at it. Just once—that's all I'm asking."

Alex's eyes went icy, spearing Clark. "And if I do, will you tell him to stop writing you?"

"No, I will not. Bruce is my friend too. You—you can't order me not to have a friend." Though the stubborn set of Alex's jaw made Clark think that crying out loud, he did so think that. "Lex!"

He looked somewhat chastised. "All right. I just don’t understand how even after knowing what happened, you can be friends with the man. He's seriously got bats in his belfry, Clark. You don’t know him like I do," he said.

Clark sighed and leaned until they were shoulder to shoulder. "Then you should know Bruce wouldn’t hurt you purposely…read the letter, please?"

"Okay. Later on, or…tomorrow morning at breakfast I will. Satisfied?"

"It's a start. Yes. And how 'bout I give you a reward?"

"It's a start."

Clark angled towards Alex, and pressed soft dry lips to his, brought his hands up to cradle Lex's head, smooth as velvet, warm…he loved the feel, the way Lex fit into every part of him.

"Clark, be careful," Alex mumbled into the kiss and Clark laughed a little.

"Think everyone knows by now…but I'm listening out, don’t worry." He licked Alex's neck, and nibbled tender skin, the way he knew Alex liked. He loved the sigh it made, that tiny little sound of surrender. It made Clark stiffen, knowing that he could do that, knowing how much Alex depended on him…he kissed his way back up Alex's neck, captured his mouth again and kissed him as slowly as he could, kissed him until he could barely stand it, until Alex sucked at his lip, bit down—it was sharp, short—and he felt it, like he hadn't felt falling from the tracks, felt it like he was wearing the necklace and the shock made him gasp, the pain made him hard.

"Ah, you like that? Alex purred and shifted on the seat. Clark moved too, his hand drifted down until it settled on Alex's hip, squeezed tight, pulled him close, until they were pressed together, shoulder, hip, thighs…when they were as close as they could get, Clark settled the blanket over their laps. Alex spread his knees, and shifted Clark's hand, groaned a little. "Come on, Clark, don’t tease me."

"We've got to be quiet…" Clark rubbed his hand along Alex's inseam, higher and higher until his palm was resting over Alex's fly, rubbing circles over the hard ridge marring the perfect tailoring. Buttons came undone, belts opened so carefully, and Clark slid his hand into Alex's pants, and led Alex's hand into his own. Alex eased lower and spread his legs wide as he could…

Slowly, quietly, Clark stroked Alex, and rocked his hips to the rhythm Alex made with his hand. Clark bit his lip, sucking it hard to keep from moaning as loud as he wanted to. He could feel the warm slick smearing Alex's length, smoother now, faster—he lifted his fingers to his mouth to taste, and Lex moaned. 

"Jesus, Clark…" his voice was rough, the struggle not to be heard made it break, and his fingers clamped around Clark's cock, harder, pushing him closer to coming. He jerked in Lex's grip. "Tighter…" he dropped his head back and hissed. Alex silenced him with a kiss, dragged his mouth across Clark's jaw, sucking at the soft place under his chin, and Clark shuddered. "Oh, that's good," he breathed against Lex's shoulder, loved the feel of Lex in his hand, hot, hard, silky, moving in and out of the tight circle of his fingers, dragging the hot head of his cock over his palm. He shivered when Lex's fingers bumped along the ridge of his, teasing shudder after shudder from him.

"God, quiet—I can't—I'm going to come…" Lex was pumping him faster now, tighter…"Wait, wait…" He fumbled with his free hand at his pocket, searching for his handkerchief, pushing it at Lex. "We're going to make a mess—"

Lex snorted and pulled the handkerchief away. "No we won't," he whispered and bent over him, took the head in his mouth and sucked hard. Clark grunted—orgasm rushed through him like a storm, before he could warn him, he was coming in Lex's mouth. Lex moaned, tiny muffled sounds that sent shocks of ecstasy through Clark and he felt Lex trembling against him, felt his arm moving as he jerked himself and came into Clark's handkerchief….

"Oh God, oh fuck—" Lex was panting, his mouth pressed against Clark's neck. "I think…I think I hurt myself."

Clark chuckled weakly. "I'm not sure, but I think I blacked out in there somewhere." He took the wet handkerchief from Lex and shoved it in his pocket.

"Souvenir?" Lex muttered, his eyes already falling shut—Clark could feel the change in Lex's breathing, knew he was drifting off. He rearranged their clothes, kissed Lex's forehead and eased his head back against the seat.

"Go to sleep—I'll watch over you." He got a sleepy mutter and an annoyed huff in response….

_If you're curious,Tiger Rag, recording by the Mills Brothers, and  this absolutely ass-kick version by Art Tatum_

@@@

Some noise in the distance disturbed the best nap ever in the history of naps, enough that he was beginning to wake and he really didn’t want to. It was too perfect out under the trees. He felt so lazy, so heavy and warm…summer breeze wafted over him, tickled his cheek…the grass under his cheek tickled him, and the breeze brought a faint scent of fried chicken and biscuits…he could hear his mom singing, the sound of her voice drifting across the yard. He could hear his dad coming up the driveway, the chug-chug of the tractor's engine, Dad whistling something…something. No one ever knew what the tune was supposed to be—he was so terrible at it. 

Clark laughed a little and rolled to his side and reluctantly opened his eyes. The sky was blue as sapphires and went up a million miles, the sun was so bright. He could see Dad on the fancy new green tractor and Hannah beside it, pedaling her bike madly to keep up with Dad. Monkey was racing alongside her, barking and barking, and Clark jerked upright, staggered to his feet—something was wrong or going to be wrong—he waved his hand and meant to yell "Watch out!" but it came out so faint and weak and the dog ran into her and screeched, Hanna let out a breathy scream and yanked away from Monkey, her tires wobbled, she yanked at the handle bars again and overbalanced. Clark tried to run to them but it was like swimming though cold molasses. She went into the side of the tractor and under and the sound of crumbling, tearing metal and screaming stunned him, he was falling, and falling—

 

Falling in the dark, tumbling—Clark opened his eyes and he was in hell—fire burned all around him in the black, the air was thick with greasy smoke and the smell of blood, echoed with screams—

Rain whipped the smoking metal, churned earth and blood together into mud that clung to Clark, pulled at him. He wrenched open the twisted metal coffins the cars had become...Clark worked mindlessly; blood all over him, none of it his. He pulled his friends out of the twisted coffin of metal; he freed passengers—pulled out bodies. He moved like a Kansas tornado, pulling metal apart like wet cardboard. Voices called out to him, begging for help. Screaming for help, for the Angel to save them—except for one, the important voice, the one he searched for.

" Alex, Lex, where are you?" He called out for Alex over and over—whoever wasn't out cold or stuck inside their own minds covered their ears, rammed fingers in to block out such awful grief.

The night began to lift, and the rain dwindled down to a clinging mist. Humidity rose with the sun, the fires were dying and fire engines and police cars and ambulances from nearby counties filled the road and crowded around the tracks.

Police fanned out and questioned everyone they could, and everyone said the same thing—they had no fucking idea what happened, they'd helped each other out, no idea why the train was in pieces, it was luck, it was the fates, it was God—

Walt pushed off the reporters that came out of the dark like roaches. He had an arm around a soaking wet and shivering Chloe, hadn't been able to let her move from under his touch since Clark had suddenly appeared out of the night, and put her in his arms…Pete was on the other side of him, the rain making the blood on his face thin and it covered his features like a veil…angels, luck, yeah…sure.

Off to one side, in a relatively quiet spot, he could make out a tall dark shape—a guy was standing in the shadows holding someone in his arms as easily as if he held a kitten. Walt took a deep breath and forced himself to let Chloe loose. He walked shakily over to Clark—to the Angel. The man he held was too still, too still…

The eyes that lifted to his shifted orange and red, like the fires dying around them, and for a moment Walt was scared to death—of _Clark._

"Fuck, C.C., is…is…he's gotta be alive—" Walt swallowed, afraid to back up and afraid to come any closer. Clark looked wild and fierce, not one bit like the gentle, corn fed country boy Walt knew—this Clark had torn metal to shreds, done things that were impossible to believe—

"Yes. Yes, alive…" and tears broke and rolled furious over his cheeks paler than the moon-white forehead he pressed his mouth against.

Walt sighed, and felt muscles unlocking with the relief of knowing Alex was alive. He was damn fucking grateful that his friend lived because he loved him that much and because Walt knew he'd looked into Clark's eyes and for a brief moment nothing human or sane had been in them. Every fucking body there was lucky that Alex still breathed tonight.

"Cee…Clark…run."

The kid jerked his head up.

"Run. Most of them haven't seen you. They know it's the Angel saved them, they don't have to know it's you." Walt jerked his head in the direction they'd come. "We left you guys in Metropolis, far as anyone knows. Our guys—they'll remember what I tell them to." He put his hand on Clark's soaking wet, scorched jacket. "You meet us when you want. If you want."

Clark stared back at him and slowly some of the wildness left his eyes, color was coming back to his cheeks…he nodded finally. "All right. All right." He lifted Alex close to him, and closed his eyes and shuddered when Alex moaned and pushed up under Clark's chin.

"Good bye, Clark—go!" Walt took a step back, waiting for Clark to run. Clark swallowed, seemed hesitant…he closed his eyes and muttered something, flexed his knees and—jumped. "…C.C.?"

Walt watched the streak rise straight up, straight up and angle away. He just fucking watched his singer fly off into the night sky with his clarinetist. "No. No nonono. Just—fucking hell no." But it had happened, right in front of him. His shy little off-the-cob singer was the Angel and the Angel could do…anything. Including stealing Alex away. "Nope," Walt shook his head. "Ain't gonna worry about it, or think about it, or…anything."

He made his way back to Chloe and Pete, had the guys that were okay pass around the word—Alex and Cee had quit the band in Metropolis and no one knew where they'd gone.

No one spoke about Alex and Clark, no one ever would again.

A world war took center stage, and big bands slowly died, music changed, the whole world changed, and America gained a hero, a super man, dedicated to truth, justice and the American way. And _this_ is where the story begins.

 

 

**Epilogue**

_Dear Hannah,_

_It's been a while, I know, but we've been so busy lately—as you've probably seen in the papers, or the newsreels. I want you to know that your brother did not come up with that stupid name and the less we ask about the goofy costume the better—blame it on a couple of guys who claim to be my friends. I've told you about Bruce before? Put Alex and Bruce together and it's just trouble. They think they have a sense of humor. It's so sad that they're mistaken. At least I don't look as strange as Bruce, and I'll explain that when I see you._

_I'm terribly sorry I couldn't say anything to you at your graduation—I could only drop in for a moment, but I saw you. I hope you liked the ring and the journal. I'm going to come home for a real visit someday soon, I promise I will. Now that the war is over, I can do more than write you, and I really miss you all so much._

_I want you to know I'm happy, I think I'm happier than I've ever been. My friend and I have gone through a lot together but it's made us stronger, closer, and more of a team than ever. Alex is so smart, and so quick, and strong enough to help me do what I do. Just for goodness sakes, don’t call him a sidekick! (smile)._

_It's kind of weird the way nothing turned out the way I thought it would. I admit I miss the band, all the guys and Mr. Walt, but what I'm doing for people now is more important than what I want to do for myself. It's what I have to do and my friend understands that better than anyone else could._

_Right now, we're working for the Metropolis Inquisitor. It's not all that great. It's his dad's newspaper, and that's another story. And just in case you think newspaper work is glamorous, just picture me sitting through ward meetings and chasing after paddywagons, only it's even more boring than it sounds. It's perfect in one way, I don’t have to explain sudden disappearances, and I'm best friends with the editor. Remind me to explain nepotism to you. Anyway, I don’t think we're going to be here that long, the Daily Planet is hiring and I'm trying to convince my friend that moving on is a good deal. He's kind of too loyal sometimes, but I'll talk about that later, too._

_Anyway, I love you, and as soon as I can, I'll come to see you and mom and dad—_

She let the letter drop and sighed, her face towards the yellow farmhouse. Monkey flopped at her feet, and let loose a long suffering 'whuff'.

"I told you it was hot out, you didn’t have to come," she scolded. It was hot, so hot that where her fingers touched the paper, ink ran. She moved her fingers to the edges so she wouldn't erase her brother's words. "Superman…" She laughed to herself. He was right—it was a goofy name, too darn big for the guy she remembered—a tongue-tied, awfully shy but awfully sweet boy....

Well, she thought, that was a long time ago, and now her brother was someone else altogether. Someone pretty swell, really.

Monkey broke into her thoughts, he lurched upright from his sprawl against the mailbox post and his tail beat the ground, throwing dust into the air. She turned to look behind her and a tall form loped towards her, waving enthusiastically. She waved back." Donald!"

Her boyfriend called out, "Hey, good lookin'! What's cookin'?"  
She waved the letter in the air. "I got a letter from my brother," she said, smiling. She tilted her chin up and let Donald peck her cheek and slide his arm around her shoulders. They walked on to the house and she folded the pages and tucked them in the pocket of her jumper.

"So, a missive from the mysterious, amazing, older brother. He coming home finally?" He looked at her and slowed her to a stop. "What's wrong, baby doll? He's okay, isn’t he?"

"My brother's in love. He's not really saying it, but I can read between the lines." She smiled. "He's finally found whatever it was he was looking for. I'm just kind of sad I wasn't there for any of it."

"Aw, sugar—I bet he feels the same about you. Look at you, all grown up and ready for college and dating a great guy…"He stopped when Hannah laughed. "Yes, and modest too. I bet your brother wishes he'd been here to see all that too."

"You're right. Besides, we'll be seeing each other soon, I feel it."

"There you go. And I'll bet too, that you'll love his girl just as much as he does."

"His _girl?"_ She laughed a little. "Well. I guess…I guess I will." She linked his arm through his and they walked to the house, singing a new song that was her favorite now….

_Kiss me once, then kiss me twice_  
Then kiss me once again  
It's been a long, long time  
Haven't felt like this, my dear  
Since I can't remember when  
It's been a long, long time 

_You'll never know how many dreams_  
I've dreamed about you  
Or just how empty they all seemed without you  
So kiss me once, then kiss me twice  
Then kiss me once again  
It's been a long, long time….  
__  
Words by Sammy Cahn, music by Jule Styne 09-17-2008 fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who read it for the first time, thanks so much for taking a chance on this! For those who've read it before, thanks so much for revisiting this story with me! 
> 
> I loved all your comments and thanks for the kudos--remember, kudos are lemon-drops of love and comments are the chocolate truffles all us story tellers love so much! :D  
> ♥  
> roxy


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